


A Witcher's Work

by LGStories



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Eskel - Freeform, Eventual Smut, Fanfiction, Geralt of Rivia - Freeform, Inspired by The Witcher, Kaer Morhen, Kaer Tolde, Lambert - Freeform, Leshen - Freeform, Love, Magic, Mountains, Mystery, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Pre-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Sex, Skellige - Freeform, Slow Romance, Smut, Sorceress, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, The Witcher Lore, Triss Merigold - Freeform, True Love, Valley, Vesemir - Freeform, Witcher - Freeform, Yennefer - Freeform, potion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-05-17 04:15:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14825075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LGStories/pseuds/LGStories
Summary: Jeya is no ordinary human. She can produce Witcher potions and oils, and has taken many Witcher contracts upon herself. Years have passed, and she has finally met her match - and a true Witcher, for the first time ever.





	1. The Leshen's Forest

 

Dusk approaches, and a cold wind is picking up above the forest just south of Fayrlund. In her final hours of sunlight, Jeya scans each line of her journal's entry on leshens - for the twenty-something-th time.

_Hallucinations - be prepared for them. This creature will do everything in its power to ward off intruders, or otherwise kill them if it's got the appetite. Be prepared for this as well, obviously. Be careful that it doesn't like you too much, or it might bind itself to you. In which case, killing YOU will be the only way to kill it._

There's a reason humans don't hunt the creatures in this journal, though Jeya is unique in her experience doing exactly that. Her educated encounter with this particular beast will be a first, and she hopes that what she's learned up until now will be enough to match it.

Still, this is no work for a human. Most humans die trying to attempt what Jeya is about to, but with the rarity of Witchers for hire, those with a heightened instinct for survival and combat have taken responsibility in their place. The pay is extraordinarily high, because most do not live to collect it.

Jeya looks down at the etching at the bottom of the page, and memorizes the vague image. She will have to watch the woods very carefully, so as not to miss the creature hiding in plain sight among the trees. She closes the journal and realizes, suddenly, that the rustling leaves above her head are the only things making a sound. She lowers her hands down to her side, still holding the journal, and looks about her intently. Autumn has only just arrived, most leaves have not yellowed yet, and almost none have fallen to the ground. Most animals will not have gone into hibernation yet, and so there is no excuse not to hear the sound of tiny claws against tree bark.

She takes another deep breath and closes her eyes, attuning her senses to the environment. A breeze picks up the smell of pine from the trees, and the needles brush against each other in perfect harmony. The image of the forest remains in her mind as she listens carefully to these sounds, mapping the surface of her surroundings in her mind.

Jeya turns her head toward a gentle gust of wind to her left, but hears nothing else. She opens her eyes and tucks the book away into a satchel hanging off the side of her hip, which also bears a small bottle of relict oil, made of dog tallow and mistletoe. Preparing this concoction is not an ordinary ability for humans, but Jeya surmises that their 'inability' to do so _must_ be a ruse to prevent humans from attempting this work to begin with.

She proceeds forward, maintaining her concentration on her surroundings. Within a mile, she shudders as a sudden gust of air scrapes against the side of her arm, and another against her leg. She turns briskly and looks about her, but there is nothing and no one around. Even the leaves and twigs have remained undisturbed against the ground. This may have been an attempted hallucination on the creature's part, but her mind is too focused to be affected by it.

Jeya continues onward, as the distance between the sun and horizon shrinks, and the sky grows dark. After another mile or so, she stops. The sun is now hidden away, and its rays of light have made way for an ambient evening. Gentle footsteps tread over tree roots and twigs not far from where she is. Jeya stands firmly, slowly turning her head toward the sound.

A tall being slowly comes into sight, and an austere sense of calmness steeps in Jeya body. The leshen's wooden claws are the size of Jeya's forearms, and its antlers are as long as her legs. It towers above her in height, and yet, she remains completely unfazed by its presence - this can only indicate one thing. The leshen stops a short distance away, and hardly a ripple of movement is detectable thereafter.

"You must be a hallucination," Jeya speaks at the apparition.

No movement or response from the creature.

"I will travel through these woods. Wherever you truly are, do not confront me," she says, though she is counting on being confronted.

Jeya begins to move toward it briskly. The leshen remains motionless, even as she approaches it from a few feet away. In a quick and sudden movement, it raises its arm and plunges it down toward her body, aiming at the base of her neck. Jeya continues without so much as a flinch, and just as the stroke is about to fall upon her, she passes through the body and it dissipates into thin air. She stops and looks over her shoulder, and a knowing grin tugs on the side of her mouth.

A sudden screech echoes loudly in her ears, and a heave of pressure on all sides of her body draws the air from her lungs with great force. The shock is abrupt, and her vision goes dark as she falls to the ground.

 

 

***

 

 

The forest has gone black by the time she comes to. A full moon has risen into the sky, and illuminates the clearing of trees around her. Jeya notices a faint, bluish light engulfing her hands as she lifts herself off the ground, and into a seated position. She looks down, and before her are two poorly etched words in the dirt:

K I L L W I T C H E R

"Oh, _shit_ …" she whispers, feeling the blood thumping in her veins, as panic begins to rise.

"You," a deep voice startles her from behind, jarring her momentarily. Jeya, still sitting in the dirt, turns abruptly toward the voice, kicking up dust into the air. A tall Witcher, clad in black, steps out from the dark treeline.

She glances at the etching again.

Jeya would never agree to face a Witcher. It would mean certain death, even for her. The one before her must be fulfilling the same contract, and now has motive to kill her, in order to complete the mission.

"You should leave, this is no place for a human. Especially not at this time of the night."

Jeya narrows her eyes, "You…. aren't a hallucination, are you?"

The Witcher turns his head dubiously, "No, I'm not. Are you?"

"Can't you tell?" Jeya rises to her feet and steps back.

He scans the slender woman's body, halting at the only area of exposed skin - her hands.

"Your hands—you've been marked by the leshen."

Jeya peers down at them. "Yes, so it would seem," she mutters, "And I think I know why it chose me…"

The Witcher raises a brow, "A monster's rationale should be the least of your concerns right now."

"I'm aware," she responds solemnly, fighting to keep her panic at bay.

She eyes the Witcher intently as he steps closer.

She cannot run, for the Witcher will outrun her. She cannot fight, for only a Witcher can kill another Witcher. And, even if she tried any of the above, there is no known avenue away from death, once a person is marked by a leshen.

Each thought cycles through her mind, and Jeya knows that time is running out to make a decision about how difficult the next few minutes will be. If she does not make a choice, surely the Witcher will.

"Are you on the Path, Witcher?" she asks him, finally breaking the silence. The Witcher steps forward without responding. Jeya pulls a dagger sheathed in her boot, and points it at him, "I asked you a question."

"I am," he nods.

"And you're taking contracts, still? Saving people?"

"Why do you need to know that?"

She stares at him for a moment. "Because," Jeya sighs, "I... I know what this means," she looks down at her hands. "I know what it all means, so I just... I need to know that if I don't fight for my life, it's not for nothing."

The Witcher knits his brows together confusedly. "Who are you, exactly?"

Jeya stares at him for a moment, and finally lowers the dagger. She doesn't respond immediately—instead, she looks around for the nearest tree, finding the most comfortable looking one just behind her.

Sparing him a sidelong glance, she drops her dagger defeatedly and treads toward it, "My name is Jeya…"

"Jeya," the Witcher follows, "A human, right? But you seem like you know a thing or two about what I do."

She sits at the base of the tree and reaches for the journal in her satchel, just as the Witcher pauses to observe the leshen's etching. She tosses the journal to him, and he watches it slide across the dirt.

He kneels down to pick it up, and looks up at her pointedly after flipping through the pages. "Did you know a Witcher? Is that where you got this bestiary?"

"I've had that thing for as long as I can remember."

"And how many of these have you killed?"

"About a third."

The Witcher approaches her, "That's pretty impressive for a human. Where did you learn to survive in this line of work?"

"I learned from a sorceress, a long time ago when I lived in Novigrad. Her name was Triss, she taught me everything I know about survival in general."

"Well—seems a bit careless to walk straight into a leshen's forest, for someone mentored by a sorceress. Seems like the kind of thing she would have covered with you."

Jeya eyes him pointedly. "I didn't come here unprepared," she says bitterly, pulling the oil from her satchel—raising it up to him slowly as he gets closer.

The Witcher kneels down and takes the bottle from her hand, giving it a light sniff. "This is relict oil, where did you get it?"

"I made it."

His gaze hardens, "That's not possible."

Jeya shrugs, "Apparently it is."

"Humans can't make Witcher oils."

"Evidently, they can," Jeya glares up at him, "Anyway, just… do what you have to do, I guess." When he doesn't move, she holds out the dagger to him, shaking her head. "Look, don't make me think about this, okay? I can't—I don't want to die insane. Unless there's another way?"

The Witcher looks down at the dagger, and back at her, "There isn't. Sorry."

He meets her gaze, and after a moment, he takes the dagger from her hand.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Jeya."

"Jeya. I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. You should know that I don't want to do this," he continues.

Jeya peers into the eyes of her killer, and sees two stern, but deep pools of compassion. Her eyes become wet with tears that are escaping her control.

"Thanks," she murmurs weakly and shrugs, "I guess there're worse ways to die. I just didn't expect this to happen so soon."

"Don't be afraid," Ralen responds softly, "You'd have suffered a lot more in life than you will on the other side."

She swallows hard, nodding. "Yeah, I know. I've spent years doing this, and I always figured that the job is how I'd end up dying, I just didn't think it would be so abrupt, and… _fucking stupid_."

"Abrupt sounds about right—how did you think anyone dies in this work?"

"Either quickly… or not at all."

Ralen glances down at the dagger, "A Witcher never dies in his bed. I'll try to make it quick for you, and as painless as I can."

Jeya nods, "Am I… going somewhere?"

He eyes her intently for a moment. "I hope so," he shrugs, "Who knows, maybe I'll see you there soon."

Jeya nods and looks away from the Witcher, trying to keep her expression still and controlled. The movement knocks a few, relentless tears from her eyes.

"It's probably going to be here soon," she says, looking back at him. "We should do this now, or you won't be able to kill it. Better one of us dies, than both."

Ralen nods, "It'll be quick, I promise."

He holds out a hand to invite her closer. Jeya takes it reluctantly, placing one hand into his, and allowing him to raise her up. Pained acquiescence fills the woman's expression, and a heavy grief sweeps over the Witcher. He releases her hand reluctantly, stepping forward to wraps an arm around her waist. Jeya closes her eyes tightly and prepares for the pain.

"Go ahead," she whispers. Not a moment later, she feels a jolt as he pulls her in, and the cold metal of the dagger plunges into her mid-back. She exhales sharply and her eyes shoot open from the sharp sting.

Behind the Witcher, across the opening, she sees the leshen standing among the trees. Her knees fall weak and her arms begin to loosen.

" _Behind you…_ " she breathes out weakly as Ralen lowers her to the ground.

Her vision darkens once more, and the last thing she sees is the Witcher turn on the balls of his boots, swinging a large sword in his hand.

[to be continued]

_______________________

Hi, reader! Hope you like the story so far. How will Jeya survive this encounter? Read on to find out, and please leave a comment if you like the story! I will write either way, but this does encourage me to return to the work more promptly. :) Thank you for reading!


	2. While in Skellige

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeya wakes in the Witcher's cabin, surprised to be alive after what happened in the leshen's forest. The Witcher is nowhere to be found, but there is evidence of his presence all around... Namely, the bandage on her back. But not to worry - he'll be back, with a few questions.

The first few seconds of consciousness are faint. The chill, stale air flowing in and out of Jeya’s mouth is the only initial sensation that she registers. Next comes movement, as she becomes aware of her fingers twitching against some soft material. Her eyelids lift slowly, revealing a thick, stone wall, where her shadow is cast against the masonry rocks by the amber flames of a fire. The bed beneath her is soft against her front side, and the fur blankets seem to have been placed intentionally to cradle her curves comfortably. 

Jeya rolls onto her side, and gasps sharply as a piercing sting electrocutes her backside. She tries again, more slowly, and lifts herself gently into a seated position. She slides her legs out from under the warm pelt, and hangs them over the right side of the bed. She is wearing only her pants and a white shirt, the rest of her travel dress is resting at the foot of the bed. A patch of bandages is heavy against her back, where the stinging pain emanated from.

For a moment, Jeya stares down at the dusty cobblestones and pieces together what she recalls. She then looks up and about the cabin - there are more shelves built into the walls than she’s ever seen in one room. They must be built quite durably too, for the number of jars and small boxes scattered all over them must be considerably heavy. To the right of the small bed is the door, and a small, round, wooden table stands on the opposite side of the room, near the fire. A single metal plate and fork are resting atop it, next to a cup. The glow of the fire flickers against every surface in the ambient room, casting an innumerable number of little shadows. 

This must be the Witcher’s home, or a hunter’s cabin that he's currently inhabiting. When Jeya's eyes fall upon the runes lightly carved into the wooden doorframe, the likelihood of this being his own home seems a bit greater. She reaches over the frame of the bed and runs her fingers over them - they are coarse and prickly, indicating that they are freshly made. The most pressing questions finally arise; here are the runes, but where is the Witcher? And how did he manage to kill the leshen?

Several hours pass, allowing plenty of time for Jeya to ponder these questions and tend to her own wounds. She manages to stand and shuffle slowly around the room, observing the dusty shelves and gathering plucked celandine leaves and dried bits of drowner brain from a box. On the other side of the room, she finds and takes several scoops of white dog tallow from a jar, and places them all together in the metal pot hanging above the fireplace. She adds some water from the skin resting with her belongings, and waits for the concoction to boil. 

When Ralen returns, Jeya first hears the click of the lock being turned from the outside, and watches as the creaky door opens just a bit. A cold breeze quickly snakes into the cabin and sends a shudder down her backside. The wound stings a bit, but is otherwise calm, thanks to the swallow. 

Ralen strides into the cabin with branches of some unfamiliar plant in his hand, and closes the door behind him. He stops abruptly, first observing Jeya sitting comfortably in one of the chairs before the fire, and then the cup in her hand. 

“Jeya,” he says, “You’re awake, and feeling better?" 

Jeya nods, “I am, thanks to you. And whatever ointment you used on my back. What is it, exactly? It smells like mint.” 

“It’s a healing salve, with mint, chamomile, lavender and other things. I used it a lot before my Trials, I found it very soothing.” 

“It is, and it smells good too.”  

“Yes, it does. Though I gather from the smell of this room that you’re more familiar with swallow. Is that what you’re drinking right now?” 

“It is.” 

“I thought so,” he looks around, stopping at the open jar of tallow on the shelf. He walks over to it, observing how much has been used, and shuts the lid. 

Ralen stares at it for a moment, as though considering something, and then turns toward the fireplace. He drops the branches at the hearth and sits beside it on the warm ground, fingers intertwined, and rests an elbow on each knee. His dark curls are tucked behind his ears, and the fire makes his bright, golden cat eyes even lighter in color. 

“So, have you always been able to drink Witcher potions?” he asks. 

“Yes, but,” she smiles and raises her free hand up into the air. “Before we go into that, I really want to know what happened in the forest.” 

Ralen grins, “Ah, yes. Depending on how long you’ve been awake, I’m sure it’s been eating away at you.”

“Well, yes... it’s not just that though,”  she bows her head respectfully, “I’m also grateful to you, because whatever you did, it obviously saved my life. Really, I wanted to say thank you, first and foremost.” 

Ralen nods in response.

“Of course,” he says, with a deep sincerity. 

“What did happen to the leshen, though?” Jeya continues. “Only way to kill it permanently was for me to die, but I’m still here.” 

“You were brought within an inch of your life, which did make it easier to kill. It died before you did, and… well, we should always save someone’s life if we can. The leshen may or may not return, it’s hard to say. You may have come close enough to death for the bond to be broken.” 

Jeya considers this for a moment.

“Well,” she says laughingly, “If it does return, we can always go back and do this again.” 

Ralen chuckles softly and raises a finger to tap his nose. “A lesson in positivity is well learned.” 

The gesture is endearing, and the sound of the Witcher’s gentle laugh is soothing. For a brief instant, she loses her chain of thought. 

“I, uh, noticed there are some runes on the doorframe,” she gestures to them.

“Yes,” Ralen looks at the door, “I put those there a few days ago.” 

“And how long have we been here?” 

“A few days.” 

“I was unconscious for a few days? I’m sorry," she laughs, "It must’ve been very unpleasant to take care of an unconscious stranger that long.” 

Ralen shrugs, “Comfort wasn’t a priority, but thank you for considering it.”

“Well it’s the least I can do,” she beckons to him with her hand. “And so is explaining myself, I suppose. I’ve wondered about a thing or two as well, over the years, so maybe you can answer some of my questions too. Ask away, if there’s anything in particular you want to know.” 

“Alright,” Ralen nods, “How long have you been able to make and drink Witcher potions?” 

Jeya’s eyes roll to the fire in deep recollection, “For as long as I can remember, to be honest. Aside from tasting terrible, I’ve never had a problem with them.” 

“Has anyone tried to recruit you as a Witcher?” 

Jeya shakes her head, “No, I've never even met a Witcher before you.” 

“So, the bestiary…?” 

“I’ve had that forever.” 

“And you never wondered where it came from? It sounds like you're not the one who wrote it.” 

“I’m not. That was why I traveled to Novigrad, initially. I was hoping that one of the mages there could cast some kind of spell to help me remember how I came upon it. As far back as my memory goes, it's always just been me taking care of myself. I have no idea how I got it, and I hoped that if I have a family somewhere that I was separated from when I was little, I'd be able to find them. Novigrad was where I met Triss Merigold.” 

“Yeah, I know Triss,” Ralen grins.

“I find her very likable," Jeya smiles, "She is much nicer than the other mages I’d met.” 

He laughs, “Most people have that opinion of her, actually.” 

“That’s not surprising at all,” Jeya continues, “I wasn’t in Novigrad for very long, but she did teach me a number of things about surviving in the wilds that weren’t in the journal. I’ve just been adding to the empty pages in the back.” 

“I noticed that actually, that the handwriting changed at the end. It’s good that you know that books and reality are two different things. Who taught you how to fight?” 

“No one.” 

“You have no formal training?” he asks, and Jeya shakes her head, “And you’ve been taking contracts all this time without it?”

“I mean, I'm sure it would help of course, but I’ve gotten by without it.” 

“Instinct can only supplement training, the formalities can save your life.” 

“You’re definitely right. I’ve been alright without it, though.” 

“How did even you know you could survive a fight without ever being trained?” 

Jeya lowers the cup to her knees and suddenly evades the Witcher’s gaze. Ralen watches the movement in her eyes as she gathers the components of a story. Meanwhile, his eyes trail along her slender cheeks and down her neck. 

“I was attacked in the village I used to live in. It was late, and a couple of men tried to… well, you know,” her voice grows quiet, and Ralen’s expression turns icy at the implication, “Luckily, I made the habit of never going anywhere without some kind of protection. All I had that day was that dagger, but… I didn’t feel out of control once in the situation. It just came to me like I’d been doing it for years.” 

“What happened to the men?” Ralen asks with a low voice, “Did they…?”

“No, no,” Jeya interjects, “But there wasn’t much left of them that was… recognizable.” 

“Really, you accomplished that with that tiny dagger?”  

“No, one of them had a… warhammer.”

Ralen blinks in surprise, and his eyes trail to Jeya’s arms. They are fairly toned, but not nearly enough to swing around a warhammer freely. 

“Interesting,” he says. 

Jeya shrugs. 

“So when did you start taking contracts?” 

“After I left Novigrad. I learned what I needed to learn and from there, I also needed to make a living. Figured I may as well make use of my time, and there aren’t many Witchers around anymore.” 

Ralen turns his gaze to the fire. 

“Yes, that’s true,” he says, solemnly.

“Is there a reason?” Jeya asks. 

“It’s complicated,” Ralen responds. “Recruiting Witchers isn’t the easiest part of the job. Most of them die in the end, anyway. I’ve trained some of them myself and helped with the Trial of Grasses. It’s not an easy thing to watch.” 

“I understand,” Jeya responds, watching painful images flutter across the Witcher’s eyes. “You don’t have to talk about it.” 

His mind returns to the present as he looks up at her from the ground, “Thank you.” 

Jeya grins, and looks down at the potion in her cup, which has gotten cold. She takes a final sip to finish it off. 

“What will you do now?” Ralen asks. 

“I’m not sure,” she sighs, “I know for sure that I’m never going to hunt a leshen again. Apart from that, I guess I'll just go on as I always have.” 

“Well… I have a suggestion, if you want to hear it,” he says as Jeya meets his eyes, “If you still want help finding out more about yourself, I can take you to Kaer Morhen. We could get some answers there.” 

“We’ could get some answers?” she raises a brow. 

“Well,” the Witcher raises and drops his shoulders, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious. But I’ve been meaning to go home for a while, and this is reason to. Plus, I only have one contract left in Skellige. Might as well travel back to the mainland for some time, see if there’s work there too.” 

“I see,” Jeya places the cup on the table behind her. “Well, I suppose it’d be the same for me too. I came here looking for work if you'd believe it, and now it’s been a long time since I’ve left Skellige. I didn’t even realize there was a Witcher here.” 

“And I'd been wondering why there weren’t as many contracts here as I’d expected,” Ralen grins.

“Well now you know,” she smiles coyly. Her eyes may not be golden and cat-like, but she meets his penetrating gaze with her own.

"Yeah, and my guesses weren't quite as remarkable as the real answer."

A sudden softness flickers in the Witcher’s eye, and Jeya feels a minute tightness suddenly tug in her chest. 

 “Well anyway,” she shifts in her seat, trying to make the movement as natural possible, and looks at her folded cloak on the foot of the bed - just to have something to look at. “What’s that contract you mentioned?” 

“A botchling,” Ralen rises on one knee and then up onto his feet, “In Blandare. It’s not far, we can make our way there when you’re ready, and then to Kaer Tolde after. Kaer Morhen is far up north on the mainland, but there’s a ship there that can bring us close to it.” 

“Well, if I can just make another brew of swallow, we can leave in the morning... You might have to do most of the fighting, though.” 

“That’s fine,” Ralen pulls out a short and lengthy chest hidden beneath the bed, that Jeya hadn’t noticed. He unclips the buckles and pulls out a second sword in its scabbard, heaving it over his shoulder and securing it on his back. 

“Are you leaving?” 

“Well, I hadn’t anticipated you waking up this soon,” he responds, walking over to the head of the bed, where he left the other sword leaning against the wood. “And since you're coming with me, I need to make some preparations.” 

“Picking some wolfsbane?” Jeya asks in a friendly tone, and Ralen glances at her over his shoulder. She gestures around the room, “I didn’t see any in here.” 

“That’s right, because there isn't any,” he faces her as he secures the second sword conveniently next to the first. “I’ll be back by morning, try to get some sleep in the meantime.”

“Alright,” Jeya concedes, and stands up from the chair. She takes one step toward the bed and suddenly flinches, having stepped on a sharp, tiny piece of wood between the cobblestones. 

In the corner of her eye she notices Ralen, with one hand on the doorknob, staring at her. 

“Oh I’m fine,” she says, reading the mildly concerned look on his face, “I just stepped on something sharp.” 

Ralen glances at the ground, “Alright, I’ll see you in the morning, then.” 

Jeya smiles and nods, as the Witcher turns the knob and quickly disappears behind the other side of the door. Left alone in the cottage once more, she sits back down on the bed and raises a hand up to her chest, pondering the tiny bit of tightness she’d felt there earlier. [to be continued]


	3. The Contract

Jeya is dressed and packed by the time the Witcher returns. Her belongings rest beside her on the bed, and she greets Ralen kindly as he steps into the cottage with two small branches of wolfsbane. She notices that the leaves are dry and already beginning to shrivel, indicating that he must have found them early in the night, but opted to stay out instead of come home.

“Here,” she holds out a small vial containing a red mixture, “I made a bit more swallow in case we needed it. I hope you don’t mind, I used a few of the vials that was on the shelf over there,” she gestures toward a small row of them neatly aligned on a shelf, “And I saved this one for you.”

“Thank you,” he takes the vial and smiles, tucking it into a small pouch hanging off the side of his belt. “Are you ready to go?”

“I am,” she rises from the bed with two small, nearly dagger-sized swords that were on the blanket. She tightens a belt around her torso and inserts them into the built-in sheaths, forming an ‘X’ on her back. Their heaviness creates an uncomfortable tightness in the skin around her wound, but she would rather not move them, as they are easy to reach from the front.

“Don’t you need to prepare the oil first?” she asks.

“I do, but that can be done on the road,” he gestures toward the door, while plopping thin scrapes of tallow into a bottle.

“Very well,” she says as she tilts her head and watches him pour a few drops of water into it. He puts the skin down and takes the wolfsbane branches, tucking them into his belt as though getting ready to leave. Jeya senses that it is time to go and begins to tread toward the door slowly, feeling the wound sting minutely from the movement. Ralen steps in front of her suddenly, and grasps her left shoulder firmly.

“Hold on,” he nods at the swords on her back, “You should give me those. They’re heavy, and you shouldn’t strain your back when the wound isn’t completely healed.”

“I appreciate that, but it’s alright,” she says with a kindly tone as she glances over the Witcher’s shoulder, at the two swords already on his back, “You’ve got enough to carry. And besides, what would I do if you weren’t here? I’d have to find a way to make do.”

She reaches over and places her hand over his, taking it off her shoulder gently, "I’ll let you know if it becomes too much.”

Ralen peers at her blankly for a moment, and in a quick flash, she sees his catlike eyes glance down just below her nose. A shy grin doesn’t fully manage to form on her face before she turns and opens the door, seeking the forest breeze to cool her flushed cheeks and distract her keen attention.

The cottage is nestled at the root of the mountains just east of Faylrund, and Jeya can see the tall, snow-capped bodies of rock through the tips of the pine trees. Beyond them, a grey blanket of clouds creates a beautiful contrast against the bright green treetops. Jeya takes a deep breath of the cold air, as though it’s been weeks since she were outside.

“Wow,” she sighs, “It’s so good to get the smell of tallow out of my nose…”

Behind her, Ralen closes the door and locks it.

"Yeah," he says, plucking the wolfsbane leaves and rubbing them between his fingers, “I’ve never liked it either.”

They begin to head down the path as Jeya watches the Witcher drop the leaves into the small bottle with shavings of tallow and water. He then corks the bottle, and places his other hand on the bottom after making a strange sign in the air. They turn in the direction of the path headed north, and Jeya watches as he holds the concoction up in front of him, with little flames snaking out against the glass from the crevices of his fingers. It begins to melt and boil, and the Witcher swirls it around until it is thick and gooey.

“Wow,” she remarks. “So much faster than it takes me to do it.”

Ralen nods, “I would imagine so.” 

They continue along the path for several hours before it starts to turn east. A few more hours pass before they finally reach Blandare, which is quite typical as far as Skellige villages go - a small collection of stone houses, with triangular roofs to protect against the buildup of snow. There is mountain greenery all around, and muddy paths run between the buildings. Ralen pulls a small, folded paper out from a crevice in his armor, and begins to unfurl it.

Jeya turns her attention toward the sound of the crinkling parchment, and steps closer to Ralen when she sees him open the contract. She looks over his shoulder to read it, and is just close enough to feel the warmth emanate from his body. The Witcher’s cat eyes remain fixed on the contract, but his attention is being pulled to his left, where Jeya is almost close enough to touch. She looks up from the contract and steps ahead of him, and he blinks several times as his attention re-focuses:

 

WITCHER NEEDED!

My pregnant wife has been sufferin' from strange nightmares and delirium every night. No healer can find the source of it. The nightmares are disturbin', and we think someone cursed 'er, and our unborn babe! Seek me at the north end of the village. Our house is the last one on the path, we will 'ave more details (and half your reward up front).

Dorel

 

“North end of the village,” Ralen looks up at Jeya. “Turn the corner to the right, up ahead.” He watches as she takes another sip of the swallow. As she cocks her head back, the soft, light brown waves of hair resting against her back lower as well, revealing her slender neck and drawing his attention to her curved waist. She returns with a pained expression on her face,

“Too much tallow,” she chokes. “It’s so greasy…”

He chuckles amusedly as he walks over and sees her distorted expression up close,

“Let me try it,” he takes the vial from her hand, and tilts it very slightly against his lips, to get a small taste. For a brief instant, the slitted pupils in his eyes grow slightly wider with repulsion, but immediately subside as he returns to his default expression. Jeya smirks.

“Drink up,” Ralen hands the vial back to her, and continues along the muddy road.

Jeya looks down at the bottle, realizing momentarily that his mouth had just been pressed against the glass… She huffs aggressively, actively casting the thought from her mind, and throws back the rest of the liquid in the vial.

She speeds up a bit to catch up to him, and on both sides of the path, villagers turn their heads as they pass. Ralen towers above all the men in stature and form, and walks with steady purpose along the path ahead of her. Jeya straightens her back and quickens her strut to match his kingly demeanor, but feels comparatively plain in appearance.

The hut at the end of the northern path is small, and is made of wood instead of stone. Ralen stops at the door and knocks. The sound of his knuckles against the wood is low, indicating that the home is made from a more thick and fortified material than it appears.

A woman with bright red hair, dressed in a plain grey dress and apron, opens the door. Jeya’s eyes immediately fall to the woman’s stomach - she must be seven months pregnant, at least.

“Hello,” the Witcher greets her with a deep voice. “I’m here about the contract.”

 _Straight to the point…_ Jeya thinks to herself.

The woman watches him intently before glancing at Jeya behind him. Jeya notes that the woman’s face is bright red, and slightly clammy.

“An’ her?” she speaks, with a youthful voice.

“She’s with me,” Ralen responds, without looking back at her.

“We only need one Witcher.”

“She’s not a Witcher. She’s just a companion.”

“Don’ expect us to pay both of you, do you?”

“No,” Jeya interjects. “I’m his companion, just passing through with him.”

The woman eyes Jeya for a moment before nodding, “Alrigh.’ Come in, then.” 

She steps back, allowing both of them in. The inside of the hut is just as modest as the outside. The floor is mostly gravel, but for a wooden platform to the left, upon which the bed stands. In the righthand corner opposite the door is a small circle of stones, with a crane and pot hanging above a fire pit. Finally, a small wooden table with three chairs stands in the middle of the room. Both Jeya and Ralen consider it odd that a family living in such conditions could spare the coin to hire a Witcher.

“Please sit,” the woman gestures to the chairs. “I’m glad someone answered the contract, I was beginnin’ to worry that someone tore it off the no’iceboard and threw it out to make room.”

“No, I have it right here,” Ralen holds the parchment up, “I had another matter to attend to not far from here, I picked this up as I was passing through a few days ago. Tell us what’s been going on. I assume you’re Kahla.”

The woman nods, and a shadow passes over her eyes as she slides the third chair out and sits across from them, “It’s been a nightmare, literally. Every night for three weeks now, I’ve been dreamin’ that my child’s born bloody ripped to shreds. Can’t be normal. It’s the same dream, again and again. Twice now I’ve woken up thinkin’ that Dorel’s stabbin’ me in the gut, ’til he brings me back to sense.”

“And how does he do that?” the Witcher asks. Jeya recognizes the tone of voice, it is as low and distant as it was with her in the leshen’s woods.

“Just shakin’ me til I started makin’ sense again.”

“Has anything been progressing recently?” Jeya asks.

Kahla nods, “I’ve got a horrid fever, now. Been feelin’ weakthe past few days, but haven’t come down with anythin.’ Had it for two weeks, now.”

Jeya and Ralen exchange glances.

“Any physical marks on your body?” the Witcher asks.

“Yeah, here!” Kahla stands and lifts her hair off her shoulders, revealing a bright purple bruise on her back.

Jeya eyes it from the chair while Ralen stands to take a closer look. He pulls the hem down slightly with one finger, and immediately detects the faint smell of blood with his Witcher senses. He looks back at Jeya and nods before letting go of the hem and sitting back down.

“I suspected from the contract that you had a botchling problem, and the blood on your back just confirmed that.”

“A… botchlin?’ And… what blood? Tha’s just a bruise.”

“A botchling is a monster born from a stillborn child that’s discarded without proper burial. They come out at night, and tend to target expecting mothers. Everything you’re experiencing has been the result of a botchling feeding on your blood every night.”

The color drains from the woman’s face as she stares blankly at the Witcher.

“Don’t worry,” Jeya leans forward, and the woman’s head turns slowly in response, “We’ll handle this, and-…”

Jeya is interrupted by someone opening the front door. A tall, bulky man in a thick tunic steps inside. The man halts, looking about the company in his home. His gaze stops at at the sight of the Witcher at his table,

“Ahh, Witcher! Here about the contract?” he speaks in a deep, raspy voice.

Ralen nods silently, without standing from his chair. Jeya follows his example, and simply looks up at the man from where she sits. The man’s eyes widen faintly as they fall on Jeya, and his grin quickly turns into a subtle leer. Jeya’s eyes narrow slightly in contempt of the married man's regard.

“I’ve already told ‘em everythin,’ Dorel,” Kahla stands, seemingly oblivious to the scene. “They say it’s a botchlin’ that’s been causing the nightmares and such.”

“Botchlin?” he asks.

“A dead babe that didn’ get a funeral. It’s feedin’ off my blood, makin’ me crazy an’ sick!”

“Wh-!” Dorel gapes at her, “Well can y’help us, Witcher?”

“Yes,” he nods, rising from the chair and taking out the bottle of cursed oil. “And it’s almost time to do it. Botchlings come out at night, and the sun will be setting soon. My friend here,” he gestures at Jeya, “Was hurt a few days ago, so I’ll have her stay inside and protect you if it gets past me for some reason.”

“Do we have to pay her too?” Dorel asks.

  
“No,” Ralen holds the contract up between his fingers, “But this does mention paying half the coin upfront.”

“Ah yeah,” the man reaches down and pulls a small pouch from inside his pants. Jeya makes a face. Dorel reaches in and takes out a small handful of coin, holding it out to the Witcher.

Ralen stares at the coins in bewilderment, and then looks up at the man, “Who the _hell_ keeps a coin purse in their pants?”

Jeya covers her mouth and laughs softly. While quiet to Dorel and Kahla, the sound is clear to the Witcher, and very pleasant to hear.

“Well no pickpocket’s gon’ reach in there for it!”

“Just... leave it on the table,” Ralen shakes his head and steps around the side of the table. He strides out of the hut, and Jeya watches as the Witcher turns toward them just outside the door. He jumps, grabbing the edge of the roof and hauling himself up effortlessly. 

“So…” Kahla turns to Jeya, “What now?”

“Now,” she sighs, “We let the Witcher do his work.”

 

***

 

Jeya feels her eyes grow heavier with each passing hour. The last sign of Ralen’s presence were his footsteps on the roof, and she wonders how he is weathering his second night without sleep. Meanwhile, Ralen meditates uncomfortably at the top of the roof, keenly aware of all his surroundings. 

Kahla sits up from the bed as Dorel continues to sleep soundly. One glance at her body language indicates to Jeya that the woman is deathly fearful.

“You should get some rest,” Jeya speaks kindly to her, trying to reassure the young woman.

Kahla shakes her head sharply, “N-no, I can’t sleep now. Not knowin’ that _thing_ is out there.”

“You don’t need to be afraid. _He_ ,” Jeya gestures toward the ceiling, “Won’t let anything happen to you.”

Kahla looks at the woman worriedly at first, then sighs.

“Yeah, I suppose…” she pauses, “He _is_ quite stoic, isn’ he?”

Jeya glances up at the roof, knowing the Witcher should have no trouble hearing them.

“Um… Yes, he is,” she responds, solemnly.

“We’ll be safe with ‘im?”

Jeya nods, “We definitely will be.”

Kahla grins, and takes a deep breath.

“You know,” she says a few moments later, after glancing at her sleeping husband. “He’s handsome, too.”

Jeya raises a brow. 

“Um... Yes, I suppose he is,” she says amusedly. 

“You see the arms on ‘im?” Kahla leans forward and whispers enthusiastically. “And that _arse_...”

“Oh my God,” Jeya covers her mouth and giggles quietly, wondering whether she should tell the woman that the Witcher might be listening to their conversation.

“What? Am I wrong?” Kahla whispers again, with a mischievous smile.

“Uhh,” Jeya struggles to contain her laughter. “I… hadn’t noticed.”

“ _Reaaally?_ ” Kahla narrows her eyes as her smile grows wider, “Is tha' why you’re laughin’ like a giddy child and your face is red as a spring toma'o?” 

“No,” Jeya continues to muffle her laugh with her hand, “I’m laughing for a different reason…”

“An’ what’s tha'?” Kahla asks.

“Well, you know, he can actually-...”

Jeya is interrupted by the sudden sound of footsteps running down the side of the roof. A shrill shriek pierces the brisk air on the other side of the hut’s back wall. Kahla gasps, 

“It’s here!!” she cries, waking Dorel.

Jeya snaps a finger loudly into the air to silence her, and walks over to the wall to listen beyond it. The sound of grotesque gurgling and crying is clear, but Jeya listens for the Witcher instead. The sound of rolling and scraping on the ground are the only things that sound like him, with the occasional sound of tearing flesh.

 _“Ralen,”_ she breaths against the wall, _“Don’t you let it-…”_

Her whisper is interrupted by the eruption of another shriek, which then slowly grows into a deep, threatening gurgle, accompanied by the sound of breaking bones and tearing skin.

The botchling has begun to transform.

Jeya shudders, for the sheer magnitude of its growls reveals its great size. It must be a very old botchling, whose family has long since passed.

“Wha’ is it??” Dorel cries.

“Quiet!” Jeya cries impatiently, and immediately hears a sudden jerk in the monster’s gurgling, as though the predator has located its prey.

Through the wall, she hears its claws tearing through the dirt as it bolts toward the house, only to be interrupted by the Witcher somehow. There is another sound of tearing flesh, resembling the sound of ripping, rather than slicing - the botchling hadn’t taken that hit.

 _“Damnit,”_ she curses under her breath and takes off across the room.

Another shrill roar is followed by a thump, and Ralen goes flying against the side of the hut. The impact is large enough to send tremors through Dorel and Kahla sitting on the bed. A pained grunt escapes the Witcher as he lifts himself up onto one knee,

 _“Damn it, what the hell?”_ he mumbles under his breath.

The botchling stalks back and forth, preparing to lunge at the Witcher. Rays of moonlight pass through scattered clouds, and he glances at his gleaming sword lying in the mud a few feet away. A slender boot suddenly steps into his line of sight, and he looks up to find Jeya stepping out slowly from behind the corner. In the corner of her eye, she glances straight down at the Witcher's abdomen, which has a deep gnash from the earlier attack. Ralen sees a flash of panic and concern pass through her eyes before she hardens them again. The moonlight shines through the strands of her hair, and the silhouette of her body casts a shadow over the Witcher as she looks back at the creature and continues toward it.

Her gaze is calm and fixed on the monster. Its teeth are small but sharp, and its skin is thin, wrinkled, and translucent, revealing a web of veins and arteries just below the surface. The botchling’s little body has grown into the appearance of a hunched, disfigured man, and its large, glossy eyes have shrunken into small black marbles - staring viciously from below an overgrown brow bone. Its limbs are longer than the total length of its body, and its claws alone are long and sharp enough to curdle Jeya's blood. 

Her face remains still and cold, but warmth begins to emanate from her eyes as she peers at the grotesque creature. She draws the night air in and out softly, as she meditates on what she sees and feels before her - the botchling’s curse, hidden behind its eyes.

Jeya allows the essence of its curse to fill her. The pain, the anguish, and the fear. With his senses, the Witcher hears a quiet, musical note growing deep in her throat. The botchling ceases to move almost immediately when he hears it, and the sound begins to flow stronger and more beautifully from her throat. Soon, it is loud enough for Dorel and Kahla to hear.

The note is followed by other, higher notes, which together form a desolate tune. The Witcher watches the woman perplexed, yet enticed by her soft voice. He glances down at the botchling and gapes, for not only has the transformation begun to reverse, the song appears to be lulling the creature to sleep. The limbs grow smaller as the song progresses, until the botchling once again resembles a small babe - one that is deformed, burned, and beaten bloody, with purple bruises covering its body from head to toe.

Once it has full returned to its original form, the creature has stopped growling and begun to whine. By the time Jeya is hardly a foot away, it sinks to the ground and reduces its cries to a sad whimper. The tune finishes on a soft, high note, that fills even the Witcher with a sense of sweet care and protection.

Jeya holds the note as she kneels before it. Having carefully drawn one of the swords from their sheath, she swiftly pierces the botchling’s backside, where its heart should be. A sad little squeal escapes from its throat one last time, and it drops motionlessly into the mud. Jeya remains kneeling before it for a moment with her hand on the creature's head, and takes a deep breath. She turns back to Ralen,

“Are you alright-?”

“How did you do that?” Ralen barely allows her to finish the question.

She glances at the botchling and back at him, “Um... Can't do you do that?”

“No,” he responds, harshly. “No Witcher can…. _lull_ a botchling to death.” 

“Well I’m not a Witcher,” Jeya stands, and walks over to the grass to wipe her sword.

“Did Triss teach you that?”

“No,” she responds.

“Then how did you know it would work?”

  
“It’s not the first botchling I’ve killed,” Jeya turns to him, slightly apprehensive of his tone, “It just felt like something that it needed, like an instinct.”

“An instinct?” Ralen repeats, rising to his feet.

She nods. For a moment, they both stand under the moonlight in silence.

“Well…” the Witcher meets her eyes with a look of deep distrust and confusion, and mumbles coldly,

“Add that to the list of questions, then.”

Without another word, he turns and disappears around the corner.

“Ralen?” she calls out to him.

The sound of his footsteps continue as though she hadn’t said anything at all.

 

***

 

The following morning, neither Jeya nor Ralen feel rested. Despite having collected the coin and stayed in separate rooms at the inn, neither of them have gotten particularly restful sleep. The Witcher tends to his wounds all night, and hardly speaks to Jeya after what he'd witnessed with the botchling. Each time she catches his eye, Jeya finds herself unable to keep up with all the different thoughts and emotions reeling inside them. None are caring or certain - that is all she can tell.

The following morning, Jeya awakens first, and steps out to to the main hall to find something to eat. Some time later, she recognizes the sound of his heavy boots behind her, and watches as he sits opposite her, where she’d left an empty plate for him.

“Good morning,” she says, solemnly.

“Good morning,” he responds likewise.

As the Witcher gathers food on his plate, the lack of eye contact and conversation makes Jeya’s heart sink inside her chest. She watches and waits a moment, hoping one last time that he will look up with a smile and ask her how she slept. When nothing happens, she finally acknowledges the dull sadness in her chest, and that his behavior is reinforcing what she'd been considering the whole morning.

“Ralen,” she says his name softly, as he tears a piece of bread. “I’ve been thinking about something, and I'm going to be very straight with you about it.”

He glances up at her blankly and continues eating. 

She sighs. "I've clearly made you uncomfortable,” her words prompt him to stop and look at her intently, “And while I understand why, it doesn't make this less hurtful. People have always looked at me strange, distrusted me, ignored me, especially after learning about what I do. Triss was the only person that never did that to me. I wasn’t expecting it from you either... but it’s probably my own fault, I shouldn’t set expectations for someone I've only known a few days,” She pauses, looking away from him.

“So I’ve decided that I’m still going to go back to the mainland. And if you ever need to find me, you can search for me there. I understand the confusion you feel about me, because it’s the same that I feel about myself. But I’m not prepared to go to Kaer Morhen with you to be put in shackles, while you try to figure out what what’s wrong with me. Because that look in your eye last night,” she turns and meets his gaze, “Tells me that that’s exactly what you had on your mind.”

Ralen's eyes widen. Jeya stares back, waiting for a response. When none comes, she exhales frustratingly and rises from her seat.

“Wait."

She stops, and peers down at him. Thoughts reel in the Witcher’s face for a moment, until he finally softens and looks at her once more with the eyes she’d become accustomed to.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Jeya, but...” she remains standing as he continues, “You need to understand something. My whole life, I've studied every type of creature in existence, and yet, I have no idea what you are. It's clear you're not some ordinary human, and you're not just a travel companion that I happened to meet on the road. I have no idea what you are, and I’m wanting to bring you into my home. Where everyone I've ever cared about, is. You must understand my reluctance to have that kind of conversation with you.”

Jeya considers this and nods, understanding the implication.

“And I don’t want you to leave, I…” he pauses, “I like you, Jeya. I _really do_ like you. And I’m sorry that I made you feel that I’d forgotten that, but I needed time to think.”

“And,” she asks, “What have you concluded?”

He sighs, “That whatever you are, you can take care of yourself... that much is clear. And when you killed that botchling last night, I assume you could’ve done it by force, if you wanted to.” Jeya nods slightly, again, as Ralen pauses.

“But you didn’t do that. In the end, there was something peaceful about it. I don’t think that someone fundamentally evil would care to bring that kind of peace to a cursed being, if they could," his voice and expression soften, "Or think to make some extra swallow for their companion before a journey...”

"So, I would still like for you to come with me to Kaer Morhen. And I am sorry, I didn’t intend to make you feel less than you are. I promise, I won't let anyone else treat you that way before getting to know you as I do. They’ll sooner put me in shackles, than I'll let them do that to you.”

The Witcher's tone assuages the hurt in Jeya's chest.

“Thank you,” she says, softly.

“So, will you come with me?” he asks, “Please?”

She peers at the Witcher, sensing his sincerity.

“Yeah," she nods, "I'll come with you.”

A smile tugs on the corner of his mouth, “Good.”

"Alright," she sighs, turning away, “I guess I’ll go get my things, then."

“Jeya?”  
  
“Yes?” she looks back at him.

A small, mischievous grin grows on the Witcher's face, “Was your face as red as a spring tomato?”

Jeya’s eyebrows rise as color rushes to her cheeks. She turns away quickly and heads to her room, before the Witcher sees the tiny smile he’d successfully invoked. [to be continued]

__________________________

Kaer Morhen is just over the horizon now! What kinds of answers will they find? Will they even like them? What might they unravel? Read on to find out, and please leave kudos/comments if you like the story so far! :) Thank you for reading!


	4. Kaer Morhen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeya and Ralen have finally reached Kaer Morhen, stumbling every step of the way. The time has come to get some answers, and make some decisions about their future.

The voyage from Skellige to Redania is staggeringly difficult. The ship sways more fervidly as they sail into open seas, and Jeya spends half of each day bent over the ship’s taffrail - or otherwise asleep to avoid the nausea. Meanwhile, Ralen wanders about the ship composedly, more or less keeping close to her, and scans the horizon for land in the final days of their trip.

A faint mass eventually comes into sight on a cloudy morning. Having arrived at the Gulf of Praxeda, the bulk of the trip is over, and they will soon dock in the margraviate of Talgar.

“We’re here,” he announces to his companion, who is bent over the taffrail beside him on the port side of the ship.

She continues to rest her forehead against her crossed arms on the railing. She grunts loudly and abruptly, and the Witcher chuckles as he pats her back understandingly. She finally unfurls her arms and clamps them onto the railing loudly, lifting herself up to look over the starboard side. Even the deep, exasperated sigh that follows doesn’t bring the color back to her pale cheeks.

“ _I fucking hate boats_ ,” she mutters ferociously.

“More than my friend Geralt hates portals, I’d wager,” he smiles knowingly.

Jeya groans, and pushes away from the taffrail. She shuffles across the deck, rubbing her temples with her fingers. On the other side of the mainmast is the trap door leading to the living quarters, and she descends down the stairs with one heavy step at a time.

When the ship finally docks, Jeya stands at the front of the crowd, and hardly waits for the sailors to secure the plank before she heaves herself over the edge. Ralen disembarks next, and the wood creaks under his weight. Jeya watches with a glum expression, impatiently waiting to look away from the ship and not think about sailing again for a long time. 

Ralen assures her that the longest and hardest part of the trip is over, and that the rest will go quickly with the horse that he intends to purchase at the stables. They find the biggest and strongest mare at the eastern side of the village, toward the direction they will ride. Jeya offers some of the coin she’d earned to purchase it, explaining to Ralen that the ongoing pay of a ‘human Witcher’ is considerably high, due to the low collection rate. After some negotiation with the stableman, they purchase the horse at a fair price and take off on the wide bank of the river. They stay with it for some time, and by nightfall, a tall mountain range appears to their right. 

Ralen brings the horse to a stop.

“It's going to get cold in the mountains,” he says. “We should make camp for now - we’ll be there a little after midday tomorrow.”

Jeya nods, and a fresh breeze lifts the hair off her shoulders as she eyes the grey clouds snaking through the peaks. 

The Witcher climbs off the horse and looks about the shore, which is wide and covered with pebbles - perfect for making a small fire pit. Some trees have toppled over on the side of the river, and the dry bits at their base will provide wood for the fire.

“How much farther is it?” Jeya asks, lowering herself down from the horse. She takes its reigns and leads it to the water.

“It’s just on the other side of those mountains,” he responds, gathering pieces of wood in his arms. “In the morning, we will continue through the forest.”

Jeya peers at the large, textured walls standing guard against them. There is no visible crevice among them that would offer passage through the mountains.

“I don’t see a pass, how will we get through?”

“There is a way,” the Witcher responds as he walks back over, and drops the firewood onto the pebbles behind her. “But _that_ is a secret, which you will find out tomorrow.”

“Oh, a Witcher secret?”

“That’s right."

“Quite an honor,” Jeya gives him a meaningful look. 

“It is,” he kneels down to arrange the firewood. “But if you should ever tell anyone, you can be sure that I will track you down personally and hold you accountable for it.”

She gives a surprised laugh as Ralen brushes the dirt off his hands.

He pauses, and his cat eyes flicker about her, “Something funny?”

“Oh no,” she says earnestly. “Don’t worry, no one will hear about it from me.”

The Witcher nods and continues working on the fire. The timing for this is good, as a cold mountain wind is due to arrive shortly after the sun makes its departure from the sky. As nighttime settles, the sound of rustling trees and trickling water is soothing, but even the warmth of the fire makes it hard for Jeya to sleep amidst the chill. She fades in and out continuously as the hours pass by, and sits up every now and again to feed the flames as they grow low. Each time she opens her eyes and peers across the camp, she finds the Witcher sleeping soundly in a different position.

When dawn finally arrives, Jeya sits up beside the fire. The wind dies down, and the running water is the only sound still cutting through the silence. She shifts lazily into a more comfortable position and looks at Ralen for a moment, who is sleeping with resolute tranquility. It is heartening to see his demeanor so relaxed, and Jeya occasionally looks around them to ensure that no one is approaching that would disturb it.

A sliver of sunlight finally passes over the horizon, and the hour is fair to fill their water skins and prepare for the remainder of the journey. Jeya’s is in her possession, while Ralen’s rests atop the mare’s saddle with the rest of his belongings. The horse is tied to a large boulder a short distance away, and she steps past him carefully on her way to it.

A faint cracking of branches in the forest briefly captures her glance, but she continues on. As she reaches the mare and begins untying the skin, a slightly louder crack interrupts her again. She stops and stares into the trees, and again, it grows louder. Once more, and it is now more menacing.

Before she can reach for her swords, the mare suddenly whinnies and begins to kick its feet. A multitude of branches explodes somewhere behind the treetops, and the sound jolts the Witcher into consciousness. The horse kicks onto its back feet, knocking Jeya to the ground as she attempts to grab the reigns. Her left elbow collides against a large rock, and she cries out in pain. The Witcher turns sharply at the sound of her voice, while a large, winged creature bursts through the trees and takes back his attention. Jeya curses at the pain and rises back onto her feet, grabbing at the horse’s reigns once more.

The creature lands on the riverbank with a great thud, and its blood red eyes immediately snap in Ralen’s direction. It screeches, and begins to stalk toward him with incredible speed.The Witcher bolts toward his silver sword, still hanging off the horse, while Jeya struggles to control the reigns with one arm.

The muscles in the creature’s shoulders and legs contract as it expands its orange, webbed wings and takes off into the air. The muscles ripple and lengthen as it shoots down in Ralen’s direction, at twice its stalking speed.

Jeya releases the reigns briefly to draw the silver sword from its sheath, and tosses it to the Witcher before immediately taking hold of them again. He catches it by the hilt and turns, just in time to strike the beast across the face, and knock it to the ground a few feet away. The Witcher's strength is equally astonishing to behold.

The creature turns back onto its legs instantly and screeches again, revealing thin, sharp teeth lining its jaw. It jerks its head in Jeya’s direction - toward the smell of the blood trickling down her arm. The Witcher steps toward the creature demonstrably.

“What the hell is that?!” Jeya exclaims.

“A forktail,” Ralen scowls, and bolts in its direction.

The creature lowers its head offensively, revealing its thick, horned spine in a show of aggression. It then rises up onto its two legs, and extends its wings to blow gusts of wind at him. The Witcher immediately draws a thin, sharp dagger from his belt and throws it briskly at the forktail.

The dagger pierces the creature's chest, and draws it back down to the ground. Pebbles and dirt kick up into the air as Ralen slides to a stop at its side. His speed is astonishing, especially considering his stature, and Jeya watches as he leaps effortlessly onto its back, and plunges the silver sword deep into its ribcage. A pained cry escapes from the forktail, and its limbs tremble as its body drops to the ground.

 _“Not work for a human…”_ she mumbles.

The Witcher pulls the bloody sword from its body and jumps back onto the bank. He rushes toward Jeya and the horse, and takes the reigns from her hand. She immediately drops to the ground and cradles her injured arm, covering her elbow with her hand. She does this to protect it from being touched, as the slightest bit of pressure is agonizing. The pain draws tears to her eyes, despite her best effort to contain them.

The Witcher gestures the Axii sign into the air to calm the horse, and then turns back to Jeya.

  
“Don’t,” she gasps as he kneels in front of her and reaches for her arm. “Don’t touch my elbow, I think it’s broken… ”

“It’s bleeding,” Ralen takes the hand that is covering the wound and moves it slightly, holding her right shoulder as he looks intently at it. “We need to bandage that.”

She nods, “Do it for me, it’ll be faster.”

“Yes,” he agrees, “I’ll try to be careful, and then we should go.”

Jeya glances at the horse reluctantly, and nods. The Witcher takes a bit of cloth from a pouch hanging off the saddle and begins wrapping it around the wound. She gasps sharply at the sudden pressure, and Ralen winces at the sound. He then helps her stand and lifts her onto the saddle, heaving himself onto it behind her. Keeping as steady as possible, he takes off toward the thick tree line on the other side of the river. Jeya, struggling to hold her arm firmly, sinks at the prospect of riding through the woods.

The mare passes straight through the tree line, and pain radiates from her arm with every small trot that the horse has to make over the roots. She shuts her eyes tightly to contain the tears, but after some time, the horse’s movements become more gentle and steady. Jeya opens them to see that they are now following along a small, defined path between two lines of trees.

“Is this the secret?” she asks.

  
“Yes,” he responds. “The Witcher’s Path. It’s narrow now, but it will grow wider and smoother when we reach the valley.”

Jeya looks down at her arm and lets out a small breath of relief.

Ralen remains focused on the path for the remainder of the journey, while she concentrates on keeping still. Every moment seems to pass slowly because of the pain, and a wave of relief sweeps over her when the castle comes into sight among the trees.

Midday has long passed by the time they reach the main gate, and Ralen slows the mare as they come upon the wooden bridge before it. They turn the righthand corner of the gateway, and stride down a stone hallway filled with barrels on either side.

Beyond the second archway is an open courtyard with boxes, barrels, and sacks scattered from one end to the other. The open area is strewn with red and yellow flowers among patches of grass, and the path leading through the courtyard inclines on the other side. A makeshift railing of broken stone and bricks encloses the ramp on its left side, while a tall wall does the same on the right. Two visible figures are leaning against it under the shadow of the wall, and turn their ashen heads together at the sound of hooves.

“Ralen,” the older one stands, addressing him concernedly. Ralen smiles as he lowers himself down from the horse.

“Geralt, Vesemir,” he nods in their direction.

The Witchers watch as their comrade takes the woman by the waist and lowers her gently to the ground. Jeya takes in the fresh, clean air, and her gaze rises to the height of the castle. Patches of red ivy have grown against some of the grey walls, and there are wooden structures connecting many of the crumbling walkways. The rest is built directly against the mountainside, which rises above the castle to join the surrounding peaks among the clouds. Ralen steps toward Geralt and Vesemir, keeping one arm around her.

“Good to see you both,” he gestures toward her with his other hand. “This is my friend Jeya.”

“Hi,” she smiles, still cradling her arm. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Nice to meet you too,” says Geralt, the younger of the two, with a deep voice. He steps closer and peers at the woman’s arm, tilting his head. “What happened? You try to fight him?”

“No,” she laughs, cocking her head in her companion’s direction. “I’d have the broken bones, but he’d be the one bleeding.” 

“There was a forktail just outside the valley,” Ralen says, ignoring the joke.

“A forktail?” Vesemir asks. “It wasn’t the tail that struck her, was it?”

“No, no poison, it’s only broken. Some swallow will do.” 

Geralt and Vesemir look at the woman simultaneously. 

“For… her?” Geralt asks cautiously.

“Yes,” Ralen responds, leading Jeya up the ramp and toward the main hall. “Come on, you guys are going to want to hear this.”

 

***

 

As Jeya and the others pass through the wooden door, her eyes are immediately drawn to the remarkable height of the main hall. The ceiling and walls are cracked and faded in some areas, and there are giant wooden beams and platforms supporting the arches - revealing the castle’s considerable age.

It must have been beautiful when it was first built. The walls must have been bright and full, and the red tile floors must have gleamed under the light passing through the stained windows. She notes that the hall extends quite far into the mountain, and must be an easy place to get lost in. Especially considering the ocean of cluttered barrels, boxes and sacks, along with bookshelves that seem to have been randomly placed.

The three Witchers stride knowingly through the maze, talking casually amongst themselves about the time that has passed since they'd last seen each other. Their footsteps echo as they approach an open area in the righthand corner, on the far end of the hall. There, more barrels and sword mounts are nestled underneath a low window. 

Cups, plates, and pieces of food are strewn about a table that stands in the center. To its left is fireplace so vast, that it could easily fit all four of them standing upright - with their arms extended. Jeya approaches the end of the table, and notices that the fireplace is missing the back wall, making the kitchen area visible on the other side of the fire. Her eyes pass over it as she admires the design.

 _“Wow,”_ she breathes out.

For a moment, it distracts her from the throbbing pain still radiating from her arm. She sits on the wooden bench and looks about her wide-eyed, as Ralen glances at her briefly in the middle of a sentence.

Her gaze falls upon the three men before her - all of them tall and menacing. Clearly, these are shared characteristics among Witchers. Geralt glances at the woman sporadically throughout the conversation, while Vesemir begins to prepare some swallow over the fire. Jeya sits quietly and listens as Ralen tells them of their journey, and perks up when she sees Vesemir fetching a cup for the potion. She is sweating slightly from a combination of the pain and heat, and follows him with eager eyes until he finally approaches her.

“You’re sure about this?” Geralt asks Ralen, who nods.

Vesemir opens the bottle and pours a tiny bit into the cup, and kneels before her. The old Witcher’s expression is that of the same confusion that Ralen had shown when they met, and he holds the cup out to the woman reluctantly. Jeya smiles kindly at him and reaches instead for the bottle in his hand, which he releases easily. She takes it, immediately bringing it to her lips, and drinks all its contents.

Vesemir and Geralt's eyes widen, and an amused grin grows on Ralen’s face as he looks between them.

“Gods,” Vesemir mutters. “Child, these potions are highly toxic!”

Jeya inhales deeply, “Oh I could do with another one of these. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

The Witchers’ bewilderment deepens as they turn to Ralen, seeing only his increasing amusement at their faces.

“Any ideas?” Geralt asks him.

“None,” Ralen shakes his head and shrugs, while Vesemir stands and steps back between them.

“Perhaps she is a striga,” Vesemir suggests. “Or a therianthrope.”

“Neither,” Ralen shakes his head again. “There was a full moon a few nights ago, nothing happened. And I’ve been in her company long enough to know if she has a tendency to transform. As far as I can tell, she’s completely human.”

“Where were you born?” Geralt addresses her.

“I’m not sure,” she responds. 

“How can that be?” he asks. 

“I don’t know my parents. I mean, I don’t know who they are.”

The three Witchers observe her silently, and Jeya shifts uncomfortably in her seat. A wooden door suddenly bursts open on the other end of the hall, and a loud voice echoes against the tall ceiling.

“That’ll be Lambert,” Geralt mumbles.

“And Eskel,” Ralen says, recognizing the second, more composed voice telling the first to _"shut the hell up, asshat."_

The two Witchers stride out from behind a bookshelf and look to their right, immediately noticing the gathered company. Both smiling broadly at the sight of the fifth Witcher, to which Ralen responds with a great, big smile of his own.

“Raaaleeen!” Lambert strides over and pats him heavily on the back. “Long time, buddy!”

“Yeah, been meaning to come and visit,” Ralen returns the comradely motion. “How’ve you two been?”

“Oh, you know!” Lambert smirks, "Saving _all_ the damsels in distress, like I always do.”

Jeya raises a brow and ganders at the fire.. 

“I’ll bet,” Ralen laughs. “What about you, Eskel?” He looks over at Eskel as Lambert takes notice of the human woman sitting at the table.

“Oh you know,” Eskel says noncommittally. “Saving Lambert like I always do.”

Ralen and Geralt both chuckle at the remark.

“Woaah,” Lambert’s cheerful expression has turned solemn, and he peers at the bottle in Jeya’s hand with his cat eyes. “What’s going on here?”

“Quite a mystery on our hands, boys,” Vesemir responds, and Eskel steps closer to look over the woman, as the others had done.

Vesemir and Geralt both share in the retelling of the story, and Jeya continues to sits quietly and observe them just as intently. She wonders whether Geralt and Vesemir are related, considering their ashen hair, or if Vesemir’s case is simply that of old age. She looks about them, also noting that all but Vesemir and Ralen have scars on their faces. With it, she recalls the statement Ralen had made in the leshen’s forest - _a Witcher never dies in his bed_.

“Huh…” Lambert mumbles when the tale is done. “Yeah, that’s a head scratcher.”

“Maybe we could ask Yen,” Geralt suggests with a shrug. “Last I heard, she was in Visima. I can be there and back in a few days.”

Jeya perks up slightly, but recoils upon seeing a flash of repugnance in Vesemir’s expression.

“Not a bad idea,” Ralen nods.

“Alright,” Geralt glances at Jeya again. “I’ll go get ready, and head out as soon as I can. Be back in a few days.”

She watches as he pats Ralen on the shoulder and leaves the company, turning the corner around the fireplace. Meanwhile, Eskel, the kinder looking Witcher, sits beside her on the bench.

“So if I understand correctly, you never knew your parents or your family, and have no idea what happened to anyone that may have been able to tell you?”

Jeya glimpses at Ralen, and nods. 

“I mean,” she says, “Not for lack of trying. That’s why I went to Novigrad, but there wasn’t any spell that the sorceress knew of that could help me access my early memories. We tried a lot of different ones, and it’s all just… blank.”

“Sounds like some kind of memory blockage spell,” Eskel looks at Ralen. “A powerful one, at that.”

Ralen lifts a brow, “A sorceress of the Lodge would’ve been able to detect it, don’t you think?”

“We’ll see what Yennefer has to say about it,” Vesemir responds.

“Yeah, hopefully she’ll have something constructive to tell us,” Eskel looks back at Jeya. “Sounds like you’ve had crumby luck so far, trying to figure it out.”

“Well, I gave up after a while. Went on living my life,” she gestures at Ralen. “’Til I met him, of course.”

“So are you still bound to the leshen?” Lambert asks.

“Not sure, to be honest. We’ll see if it's ever reborn, and find out then I suppose.”

“Are you gonna to go back to Skellige?”

Ralen looks back at her as she shrugs, “I'm not sure. I do like the mountains, but there’s more work on the mainland.” 

Lambert scoffs, “You’re gonna end up in a pool of your own blood, doing what we do.”

“I've heard,” she responds, glancing at Ralen. "A Witcher never dies in his bed."

“But you’re not a Witcher.”

“That’s true,” she looks back at Lambert, “But I wouldn’t have started this work if I wasn’t prepared to face the consequences.”

“Wasn’t there anyone that tried to stop you from going out and doing this shit?”

“Not exactly.”

“So what, were you suicidal or something?” he asks, casually dropping his shoulders.

“Lambert, really?” Eskel says sternly.

“It’s a fair question."

Jeya’s eyes narrow.

“No,” she says in a low voice. “I wasn't suicidal... I was engaged.”

In the corner of her eye, Jeya sees her friend blink in surprise, and suddenly feels self-conscious and regretful of mentioning it.

Lambert raises a brow, “And…?”

There is silence as she considers her next words carefully. 

"And," she says, "Well, it was the first time I'd ever seen anyone die."

“Uhh,” Lambert pauses awkwardly, and then sighs. “Okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t be,” she interrupts noncommittally. “I was young, and he wasn’t a very nice person. Not the kind of man to take no for an answer, if you understand me.” 

Tension ripples in Ralen’s jaw. 

“Not that that matters,” she continues, “I still wouldn’t wish that kind of violent death on anyone.”

“Do you know what… did it?” Eskel asks.

“I didn’t at the time,” she turns to him with a kindly expression, appreciating the gentle tone. “I know now that it was a Royal Griffin."

She looks at Ralen. His expression is blank, and his eyes are unyielding. She finds herself unable to hold the gaze, and looks away.

“What about you all?” Jeya gestures to them. Lambert and Ralen are still standing before her, but Vesemir has taken a seat in a chair beside the fire. “Do Witchers... have families, away from the work?"

“Witchers can’t have families,” Vesemir says.

“Because of the job?” she pauses. “Or do you mean… they _can’t_ have them?”

“We _can’t_ ,” Eskel responds.

“Oh, I didn’t know that.”

“Most people don’t,” Lambert says as he lowers himself down to sit at the hearth. 

Ralen looks out the window behind her and remains silent. The sun is deep into the second half of the day, and the conversation moves on to the nature of the Witcher’s Path, and the unpredictability of the work. Some time passes as they sift through topics, and Jeya begins to yawn early in the evening. Toward the end, she and Ralen are hardly participating in the conversation, and she is happy when Ralen finally stands to excuses them both, offering to show her to her room.

“See you all tomorrow,” Jeya smiles warmly at them before accompanying Ralen.

Eskel and Vesemir both smile in turn, while Lambert salutes them casually. Ralen leads her around the same corner of the fireplace where Geralt had gone, and toward the very end of the hall. The white walls don't tower as high up, and they approach a wooden door to their left. Ralen opens the door, and just before it's shut, he hears Eskel’s voice once more with his Witcher senses,

_“No wonder you can't get laid.”_

***

Jeya trails after Ralen along the red, winding staircase. Even the tower is falling apart, judging by the pile of broken bricks she’d seen at the bottom.

“How’s your arm?” he asks.

“It’s already much better,” she sighs. “This one will probably take another day or so to heal, though. With more of the swallow, of course.”

  
“Well, there’s no shortage of anything here. Whatever you need, just ask.”

“I will,” she nods. “The others seem like good company. Though Lambert's a little… prickly.” 

“That’s exactly how Geralt describes him,” Ralen chuckles. “I tend to have more colorful words in mind when people ask.”

“And what about the sorceress that Geralt went to get?”

“Yennefer?”

“Yeah. What do you think of her?”

“What do _I_ think of her?” he looks back at her.

She nods.

“Well,” he sighs. “She can be ill-mannered sometimes, but she commands respect.”

“I see. Will she able to help me?” Jeya asks as they come to a door, halfway up the tower.

“If anyone can help,” he says, opening the door for her and leaning on the frame. “It’s Yen.”

Jeya strides into the room without answering. The floors are made of the same red tiles as the main hall, and extend out to a balcony on the right side of the room. A white canopy bed stands in the middle of it, and the curtains hanging over the balcony match the fabrics flowing over the bed. There is a small desk and mirror to the right of the door, along with a bookshelf.

“Is this the guest bedroom?” she turns to Ralen, in time to see him look away from from the canopy bed. 

“That’s right.” 

“It’s very nice - very welcoming.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he grins. “Also, now that we have a minute, I’ve been thinking about something…”

“What’s that?” 

“Well, we're here now... And we’ve got a couple of days before Geralt comes back. Why don’t we go out into the valley tomorrow, and...” he pauses, and Jeya watches as he carefully constructs his thoughts. “Maybe go over some of the formalities of Witcher training?"

Jeya laughs nervously, "I don't know how fruitful your efforts are going to be if I can't practice them." 

"That's fine," he shakes his head. "You don't need to do anything. We didn't start out by jumping into the ring together, we spent years listening to Vesemir's _fine_ lectures first."

"Oh, I'm not sure we have that kind of time!"  

"No, but when your arm's healed, maybe we can test your natural scorn on Lambert,” he grins. 

"Oh, poor Lambert!" she laughs. "Why not you!?"

Ralen shrugs, "I'm not quite sure how I feel about you yet." 

Her cheerfulness dies down a little, "What - are you afraid of me?" 

The Witcher smiles, glancing down at the ground before returning to her with a soft expression, "Not exactly." 

Jeya stares at him for a confusedly for a moment, with a subtle grin on her face. There is a brief silence between them until Ralen sighs gently, and gives a subtle nod.

“Alright,” he says. "Good night, Jeya." 

“Alright Ralen, good night to you too,” she responds in a kindly tone, as he reaches for the doorknob and turns away. "See you in the morning." [to be continued]

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen with Yennefer, bringing Jeya and the Witcher to the precipice of getting answers. The real question is, as Yennefer puts it, whether or not this is a desirable course of action

In the days that follow Geralt’s departure, Jeya’s excavations of Kaer Morhen remain restricted to the castle grounds. By Vesemir’s advice, she and Ralen postpone their venture into the valley until her arm is fully healed. If they should encounter any problems ‘where the devils play,’ as Vesemir calls it, they should both be able to defend themselves.

Still, surveying the castle alone is no small feat for Jeya, though it does bear a hint of redundancy after a while. The true gem of Kaer Morhen is undoubtedly the valley - mountains overlap each other from nearly every angle throughout the grounds, while patches of trees snake through the valley below. Tufts of clouds stretch across the sky each and every day, leaving room for the sun to warm the earth, and give the forest a radiant glow. 

The faint sound of clanging metal ricochets off the castle walls on the fifth morning of Jeya’s stay. She listens to it as she slides her legs out from under the soft sheets and onto the cool, stone floor. While fixing the canopy bed, she glances down at her arm and turns it about in the air - delighted to find that there is practically no pain left, thanks to her self-prescribed regimen of swallow. 

Jeya approaches the dresser and frowns at the smell of blood and sweat still lingering in the air around her clothes. Thankfully, beside them is a set of fine, clean apparel that Ralen had brought her a few days back. The pants are black and slightly tighter than she’s accustomed to, while the shirt is a bit too loose. Every day she wonders whether this is the intended style, though she wouldn’t dare complain if it weren’t. 

As she dresses, the white, embroidered sleeves hang loosely over her arms, even with the elastic cuff clinging to her elbow. Jeya ties the string over her cleavage appropriately at first, though a playful impulse prompts her to loosen it once more. She brushes the soft, brown waves that tumble over either shoulder, and turns to leave the room. 

Jeya strides through the main hall and exits where the path begins, leading straight to the training courtyard. There, the sound of the banging metal grows louder, while Ralen and Lambert finally come into sight as she passes under the second archway along the path. The sound of the clanging has gotten louder, and she realizes that it was coming from the two Witchers facing off back and forth across the grass.

“Well they’ll be back today,” Jeya hears Lambert’s voice. “Think Yen’ll notice?”

They enter and fall out of sight in the battlement of the tower above the courtyard, and Jeya leans against it where she knows they cannot see her.

“Nah,” Ralen huffs, “Even if she does, I’ll deal with it.” 

Jeya blinks, wondering what there is to be dealt with. 

“Sure you will,” Lambert scoffs, “Until Yen snaps her fingers and roasts your sorry ass.” 

“Well Jeya will probably put up a better fight if that happens,” Ralen says amusedly, and Jeya raises a brow. 

“Unless she spontaneously turns into a dragon and swallows Yen whole.”  
“Yen’d sooner claw her way back up before before going out like that.” 

Jeya stares dumbfounded ahead with furrowed brows for a moment, before approaching the battlement.  
“Is this what men talk about when we’re not around?” she calls out to them, and both Witchers turn their heads toward her. “I pictured it a bit differently, if you know what I mean.” 

“‘Yeah, ‘less talk, more action' is my motto!” says Lambert. 

Jeya grins as she turns the corner of the path and heads down to the courtyard. Both Witchers are glistening in their own sweat, and set down their swords against the brick railing as she approaches. 

“How’s your arm today?” Ralen gestures toward it, noticing that it is hanging loosely at her side. 

“Oh it’s great!” She lifts it effortlessly, encouraging a smile from the Witcher. 

“That’s good,” he nods, and bends over to pick up the sword. “Think you’re ready to take on Lambert?” Ralen lightly throws up the sword and catches it by the blade, lowering the hilt down to Jeya. 

She glances at Lambert, who raises a brow mischievously. Jeya grabs the hilt without breaking eye contact and points it at Lambert, 

“Let’s see what you’re made of,” she says delightfully. “Just don’t kill me, alright?” 

Ralen lets out a deep chuckle as she turns and points the blade at him, smiling, “You better avenge me if he kills me or I’ll come back and haunt you - good luck sleeping in peace if that happens.” 

A quick gleam flickers in the Witcher’s eye, “Who says I want to sleep in peace?” 

“Less talk more action, children,” Lambert says slyly, turning away from them and heading to the middle of the courtyard. “Come on, woman.” 

He turns and swings the sword around by its hilt. Ralen steps aside as Jeya walks over to the center as well.

“Really though,” she frowns, “Don’t kill me.”

Lambert launches toward her without responding. His speed is staggering, and Jeya barely manages to lift the sword before the metals connect, and send her sliding backward onto one knee. Her first mental note - speed will not win her the fight against this opponent.

Several strikes later, Jeya has only switched knees and hardly had an opening to attack. When Lambert finally attacks once more with a downward stroke, Jeya remains motionless until the very last second. As soon as his blade contacts her block, she takes one hand off her hilt and allows his blade to slide to the left against hers. 

Lambert hardly has a moment to realize the woman’s right hand on his arm, before he finds himself pulled to the ground. Jeya pivots on her left heel as her right elbow meets the center of his backside. The forceful impact sends him into the dirt, and he immediately turns over and looks up at her. 

“Damn,” he says, “Not bad!” 

“Thanks!” she smiles, and Jeya’s legs suddenly fall out from beneath her as he kicks out his right leg and strikes her knees. She topples over, and gasps as Lambert’s blade quickly slices the air before her and stops just short of her neck. 

“Should never let your guard down though,” he says with a solemn expression. “That’ll be your downfall.” 

“Alright,” Ralen laughs as he approaches them. “It’s my turn.” 

“My morning whoop-ass not enough for you?” Lambert addresses him.

Ralen shakes his head. 

“No, not my turn for a fight. Not today, anyway - right?” he looks at Jeya, holding out a hand to lift her up. “I’m thinking if you can run Lambert into the ground, you can handle a small hike. What do you think?”

Jeya nods enthusiastically, “Definitely. Are we taking the swords, or leaving them?” 

“Take them,” Ralen says, stepping past her. “In case we run into a pack of drowners.” 

“Well if anything, I’ll just knock you out and run,” she responds amusedly, turning in the direction of the archway. 

“Death by overgrown man-toads,” Lambert chuckles as Jeya follows after him. “Damn saddest way for a Witcher to go. I’ll never let you forget it!” 

“I’m sure you won’t!” Ralen yells back from inside the hallway. 

“I’ll help!” Jeya’s shrill voice echoes one last time. 

As she and the Witcher pass through the gateway and exit the grounds, she looks to her left and scans the walls, realizing their height for the first time. The courtyard is so cluttered with wood posts and weapon racks, she’d hardly noticed how tall they are from within. 

“Leaving the safety of the walls feels scandalous, now that we’re finally doing it.” she turns to Ralen as they continue on between the trees, leaving the castle behind them. 

“Used to do it all the time as a kid, even though I wasn’t allowed to,” Ralen glances back at the walls, and then at Jeya. “I never ran into too much trouble, but I would rather have given Vesemir the peace of mind this time.” 

She nods, “I agree. I can’t even imagine growing up in a castle though, much less in a valley like this,” she says, relishing the brisk, fresh air. “It seems so remote and peaceful. How do monsters get into the valley, if people can’t?” 

Ralen gestures toward the tops of the mountains. “Some of them fly, some of them can scale the rock, or… go through it,” he looks back down at her with a grin. “Used to give me the chills to think about it.” 

Jeya turns her head demonstrably toward the mountain to their left, “It’s giving me chills right now.”

“Don’t worry,” he shrugs with a smug grin. “You’re safer now than most people are in their daily lives.” 

“Isn’t that usually the case for me?”

“Do you usually have a Witcher around to look after you?” 

“Do I need a Witcher to look after me?” she asks in a playfully stern tone. 

He chuckles, “Well if you’re going to chasing after monsters like leshens…” 

Despite the vibrant landscape before them, Jeya’s eyes dim with the memory of the leshen’s forest. 

“That’s right, I definitely needed one that night… I thought that was it, that I was dead.” 

“You almost were,” Ralen responds, as they come to a bridge along the path. “We all learn one way or another though, there’s never been a Witcher that died without scars. But we usually learn not to make those kinds of mistakes during training, that’s why it’s so important.” 

“But I’m not a Witcher,” she says, turning casually at the bridge and wandering along the river bank to their left. “I have done a ton of reading about you though.” 

“Have you?” he smiles warmly at her. “And what have you learned?” 

“For one thing, I know you don’t sleep,” she says, scanning the walls of the crevice that the river is flowing through. “I mean, I know you don’t need to - but you slept all night when we were outside the valley.” 

“Well, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“How would you have made me uncomfortable?” 

“Would you have slept well knowing I were awake, watching you all night?” 

“Probably wouldn’t have minded, but…” she laughs. “Why would you have been watching me all night?” 

The Witcher chuckles, “There’s only so much to look at when it’s night time in the middle of nowhere.” 

“Well there was the forktail,” she says as she looks around the next corner carefully. “And considering we were near water, I’m surprised we didn’t encounter a pack of drowners too. Though that would’ve been more of a nuisance, than a terrifying assail at the crack of dawn.” 

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about them now either, unless we go too far,” he gestures ahead, where the space between the mountains grows narrow. “That, is where the devils play.” 

“I see,” Jeya nods, stopping before a small pool that’s gathered to the left of the river. “We probably shouldn’t go further, then.” 

“Speaking of,” Ralen says, following after Jeya as she crosses a small sliver of bright green grass between the pool and the mountain wall. “Is there any pain left in your arm?”

“A little,” she admits. “But it’s not bad anymore.” 

Jeya hears the Witcher’s heavy boots slide through the grass behind her, and she stops at the base of a tree. She touches the rough bark with her hand, and lowers herself down to its base. Ralen drops down beside her, and holds out a hand. 

“May I?” he asks, throwing a glance down at her right arm. 

Jeya holds it up to him, and he takes her wrist in his hands. She watches as he purposefully observes the scar running up her forearm. A familiar tension flickers in her chest - the same she’d experienced the first time that he’d sat across from her, at the hearth of his home in Skellige. Ralen slides one hand up her forearm, and squeezes it lightly at the top.

“Let me know when it starts to hurt,” he says, without looking at her. 

Jeya stares up at the Witcher’s face as he makes his way down toward her wrist. His loose, dark curls are tucked behind his ears, and she watches his cat eyes carefully as they follow his hand. A small, satisfied grin tugs on the side of his lips when he reaches her wrist. 

“No pain?” Ralen meets her eyes with a smile, and she shakes her head in response. 

The woman’s eyes are a bright amber color, and Ralen sees for the first time that they are nearly as light a shade as his. He glances down at her smile and realizes, suddenly, that she isn’t looking away - and that he feels no impulse to look away either. 

Jeya recalls the number of times she has watched his gaze flicker below her nose - it is unabashedly focused now. The caring, gentle expression on the Witcher’s face is soothing as she relaxes against the tree, beside him. 

“I felt a little bit of pain with movement earlier,” she says in a low voice and glances at her arm, still in his rough, callused hands. “But it gets better every hour.” 

A soft warmth grows in the Witcher’s chest as he rises slightly from the tree.

“That’s good…” he breathes out as he slowly leans toward her. 

Jeya feels the last word escape on his lips as they brush lightly over hers. Her eyes grow heavy as she angles her face against his. But before the kiss can deepend, Jeya suddenly turns her head toward the sound of loud hooves on the road nearby. 

“That’s Geralt,” she says breathlessly, turning back to him. Ralen watches confusedly as doubt begins to grow in her expression. “We should.. probably head back.” 

He stares at her blankly for a moment, trying to understand the change.

“Um…” he mutters slowly, peering at her disconcerted expression. “If that’s what you want.” 

“Yeah,” she furrows her brows, as if to convince herself of her own words. “We should probably head back.” 

The Witcher nods as he pulls away and releases her arm, “Alright…” 

Jeya stands, and holds out a hand to help him up. He takes it, though he does not need it, and she turns without another word. Ralen follows after her as she heads toward the road, and after a few silent moments between them, they are back at the castle gate. 

As they pass under the second archway, two riders come into sight at the center of the courtyard. One is recognizably Geralt, and the other is a woman with beautiful, raven hair and violet eyes. She is still atop her black horse, and Jeya infers that this must be the sorceress, Yennefer, who herself is clad in an elegant, black uniform.

“Wow, you managed to get her here on horseback?” Ralen says as they approach them from behind. 

Geralt shrugs. 

“I hate portals more than usual this week,” he responds dryly. 

“I see,” Ralen grins, and gestures to the sorceress. “Good to see you, Yen.” “Likewise,” she says, swinging a leg over the horse and climbing off it. She turns and narrows her eyes observantly as she peers at the young woman. “You must be Jeya.” 

Jeya steps closer and holds out a hand to her, “Yes, and you must be Yennefer - it’s good to finally meet you.” 

The sorceress’s narrow eyes suddenly grow wide. 

“Wait,” she snaps, lifting one hand up and studying the embroidered sleeve. “Are those my clothes?”

Color suddenly rises in Jeya’s face as she turns to Ralen with an unamused expression. 

“Are they?” she asks embarrassedly. 

“Yes, actually,” Ralen steps forward, feeling relieved by Jeya’s affable tone, while Yennefer turns her attention to him. “I gave them to her, just for the time being.”

The sorceress opens her mouth as if to scold him, and shuts it again before moving her hair gracefully out of her face. Her fair skin contrasts beautifully against the darkness of her hair, and Jeya glances down at the ground, feeling intimidated by the sorceress’s beauty. Yennefer looks back at her, sensing her discomfort. 

“Fine,” the sorceress sighs briskly. "But don’t distribute my belongings again, I won’t take kindly to it a second time. Now let’s go inside and have a chat, shall we? I’m told we’ve lots to discuss.” 

Yennefer glances purposefully at Geralt for a moment, then turns to head for the castle without further consult. The others follow after her along the path, like a little pack of sheep.

***

 

After the conversation with Yennefer, Jeya spends the remainder of the day in her room, drifting in and out of sleep. When nighttime finally arrives, the bright, beautiful valley that she’d seen in her waking moments has now fallen into complete blackness.

The surplus of rest has officially rendered her unable to go back to sleep, even as she undresses and crawls into the soft sheets. An hour passes as she lays agonizingly in bed, considering the events of the day, and the pending events of the morrow. Her mind strays back to the forest, to the tree beside the pool - and Ralen. Regret steeps inside her as she wishes she’d let their intimate moment continue on a bit longer than she had.

 _If that’s what you want…_ Ralen’s words echo in her mind.

She recounts her first encounter with the Witcher in the leshen’s forest, and the first time that they shared a physical touch. She would never have guessed what a meaningful encounter that would turn out to be, amidst the terrifying circumstances. Today there was no terror, but now there is plentiful sadness bleeding into her chest.

Jeya takes several deep breaths that do nothing to relieve it. She shakes her head and slides out from under the soft covers, while the warm, nighttime air continues to comfort her. Jeya approaches the dresser to take the white dress inside, which was part of the set of clothes that Ralen had brought her. After dressing, she swings a long, black cloak around her shoulders to keep warm, which opens at the front and sides. There hadn’t been a need for the cloak until now, and the cover of darkness is reassuring that Yennefer won’t see it as Jeya goes for a walk to clear her mind.

Hardly anything is visible throughout the ground, save for the small areas surrounding the torches. Jeya strides quietly through the main hall and heads out the front door, where the air is slightly cooler than it was in the tower. The courtyards just outside the castle are perfectly still, and illuminated by the moon. None of the usual colors are visible at this time of the night, as everything has taken a pale, blue tone. Jeya continues along the path, passing through the second courtyard before reaching the arch that leads to the training area. The brick railing is darkened by the shadow of the wall, and Jeya looks about the grass where she’d seen the red and yellow flowers before - even their vibrant colors have grown pale.

A flicker of movement catches Jeya’s attention from the corner of her eye, and she turns to meet a pair of eyes staring back at her. It takes a moment to realize that they are Ralen’s, who is sitting atop a large tree stump to the right of a large, pale furnace.

“What’re you doing here?” she asks, approaching him.

He grins frustratedly and holds up a knife and wood piece in each hand, “Couldn’t sleep.”

“I thought you didn’t need to sleep,” she says softly.

“I don’t, but it helps pass the time.”

“I see,” she nods toward a small pile of logs to his right. “Do you mind?” 

“Not at all,” he gestures to it, before turning his attention back to the wooden piece.

She sits beside him and looks up at his hands, “What’re you making?”

“Nothing,” he holds the shapeless piece up for her to see. “I was trying clear my head, and found something to focus on.”

Jeya takes a deep, unamused breath, and nods.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asks.

“A lot on my mind.”

“Such as?”

Jeya ponders her response for a moment.

“I’m worried about tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, we all are,” he says ominously, and Jeya blinks at him as he continues. “We talked about it a lot after you left. We all understand that it’s necessary, but no one is looking forward to seeing what happens. You’ve grown on us, unfortunately.”

“That’s nice to hear,” she grins, looking back down at the grass. “That was something that crossed my mind too.”

“What was?” 

_Whether I’d be able to stay with you all,_ she thinks to herself.

“Just… how everyone will see me afterward.”

“We’ll see you the same way,” Ralen gives her a meaningful look. “This is something that was done to you. Yennefer said that if you weren’t capable of having our relationships before, you wouldn’t under the effects of the spell. You’ll still be the same person.”

She nods without speaking. Ralen looks back down at his hands, and then turns to her once more.

“Want to try?” he asks, holding the knife and the wood piece out to Jeya. “It really does help.”

“No, that’s alright,” she says, standingup slowly. “Thanks. I think I should probably just… head back.”

The Witcher looks up at her and nods. Jeya stares doubtfully at him for a moment, and Ralen peers at the uncertainty growing in her expression.

“Ralen,” she begins. “I’m sorry about earlier today.”

He stares at her for a moment, then shakes his head. “No, nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who should say sorry, I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“No, no,” she says earnestly. “Not at all.” 

The Witcher furrows his brows. “Not at all?”

She shakes her head. 

“Then… what happened?”

Jeya takes a breath and opens her mouth to speak, but neither the words nor the right explanation come to mind. She turns her head away from him and takes her right elbow into her hand, hanging the other limply at her side. A brick at the top of the wall opposite them is visible in the moonlight, and she focuses on it intently.

“I just…” she stumbles across the reeling emotions - confusion, guilt, anxiety. Of the intimate moments she’d shared with her betrothed, few were memorable, and many were violently unpleasant. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. It’s hard to explain, I…” her words trail off.

“You can tell me to stop if you want, but… does it have something to do with your prior engagement?” 

She turns him, surprised. 

“I remember what you said. He wasn’t a man that ‘ _took no for an answer_.’"

A moment of silence passes between them as Jeya stares at him silently, before turning away.

“I suppose, it…” she mutters quietly. “It has something to do with it.”

“Jeya,” he says, and Jeya can practically feel the tension in his body. “Did he hurt you?”

She continues to peer at the brick without speaking. There are two small thumps in the grass, and suddenly the tips of her fingers suddenly grow warm by the Witcher’s hand. A flush of warmth sweeps through her as she turns back to him.

“I’m not going to ask anything of you,” he continues, soothingly. “And I _will_ take no for an answer, if that’s what you want. I don’t want you to be… _afraid_ of me.”

 _“No_ ,” she says earnestly. “I made my peace with the fear a long time ago. I struggle with these things, but I’m not afraid of you. If anything,” she continues, squeezing his fingers. “I feel grateful. To you, for being so kind, and for giving me some peace. While it lasted, anyway.”

Ralen frowns. “Now… that just sounds like you’re saying goodbye.”

Jeya stares at his disconcerted expression for a moment and shrugs, as a lump begins to grow in her throat.

“Well, who knows, right?” she says laughingly. “Even I know that magic is unpredictable.”

“Yennefer knows what she’s doing,” he responds sternly.

“I know,” Jeya nods.

“Then don’t even think about saying goodbye, to me or anyone else. If you start doing that, _you’re_ the one giving up.”

She nods again, still holding his fingers in her hand. For a brief moment, the warmth and peace fill her chest once more. The Witcher, however powerless against what is to come, encourages the illusion of peace and safety, and there is no part of Jeya that wants to leave. 

“Well,” she says reluctantly, releasing his fingers. “I won’t give up. For now I suppose, I’ll try to get some sleep.”

Ralen nods, and a sliver of disappointment flashes across his eyes. “I’ll come get you in the morning, if you want.”

“Sure,” she says with a nod and a smile. Turning away, she feels his eyes still on her, and looks back at him once more.

To the Witcher’s surprise, she steps toward him. He shifts in place as she places a cold hand on his neck, and leans down, pressing her lips against his forehead tenderly.

Jeya shuts her eyes with sincerity, while Ralen’s remain wide open in wonder. As she pulls away, Ralen reaches through the sides of her cloak and places his hands on either side of her hips. For what feels like several moments, he gazes into the woman’s deep, almond-shaped eyes - looking for any sign of objection or recoil. When there is none, he slowly tightens his grip around the skirt of her dress, and pulls her down toward him.

A softness spreads through Jeya’s body as she places both hands on his shoulders, and allows him to pull her closer to himself. The Witcher’s hands move slowly up the sides of her waist, until the entire front side of the her body is pressed tightly against his in a warm embrace. He breathes heavily as she holds her hand against the side of his neck, just below the corner of his jaw, while the other slides across his shoulder. His arms tighten around her as she lowers her head just beside her hand, and her cheek presses against his ear.

Ralen gently kisses her soft neck, and slowly pulls back until there is room to brush against her lips lightly and tenderly. He pulls away briefly to look at her, and Jeya peers back at him with loving eyes. He wraps his arms around her tightly, and leans in to meet her lips again with a deeper kiss. The Witcher’s hands begin to move freely about her waist and backside, and with each tender stroke of their lips, a warm desire burns between them. Ralen wraps one arm around her waist, lifting her gently, and turns over onto his knee in the grass. Jeya’s arms remain wrapped around his neck as he lowers her onto the soft grass.

Jeya releases the Witcher to remove his shirt, and her breath grows heavy as he hovers over her. She notices, for a brief moment, that his front side is covered with scars. With a gentle stroke, Ralen brushes the hair off her neck before leaning down, and pressing his lips against her soft neck again - and again. He runs his hand down her chest and over the rest of her body as she glides her hands across his back.

Ralen brings his hand up to unhook the cloak, and her breath falls short as he pulls the string that holds the dress together over her chest. He hooks one finger beneath it and loosens it, until it slides down her body easily.

The brisk air touches her skin briefly, before it is replaced by the warmth of Ralen’s body. He nudges her face to the side with his own, brushing his lips against her cheek before starting a trail of gentle kisses down her neck and chest. Jeya sighs with pleasure as one hand caresses her breast, and his tongue slides over the tip of the other. The Witcher wraps his lips around it, and opens his mouth to run his tongue in small, tender circles around it.

A small moan escapes her throat, and the Witcher grins against her skin, satisfied by the sound of her pleasure. Jeya glides one hand over his shoulder, while the other moves down his torso. He inhales sharply as she runs her hand over his hardness, and pulls on the buttons of his pants. Once loose, they slide easily down the Witcher’s legs. He rises back up to her face and brushes against her lips gently, gliding his hand down her thigh as she raises it beside him. The Witcher pushes against her gently, and Jeya inhales sharply as she feels him enter her slowly. Feeling her own tightness, she melts at the pleasure that rumbles in his throat. Ralen pulls back slowly, and thrusts again.

Another moan escapes from Jeya’s throat, and the Witcher captures it with a deeper kiss. She wraps her arms tightly around him as tension builds relentlessly in her lower half. She lifts her hips as he continues to push into her tenderly, caressing, grabbing, and thrusting deep into her body - anything to be as close to her as possible.

The rhythm of their lips matches the rest of their movements, until Jeya gasps from the pleasure that finally pulsates through the lower half of her body. Hardly a moment later, Ralen pushes into her with a sharp exhale, succumbing to his own pleasure. He lowers himself down beside her breathlessly. Jeya turns onto her side and wraps one arm around his shoulders, stealing a kiss as he glides his hand over her smooth curves one last time.

“We should head back,” he whispers softly, brushing strands of hair out of her face. “Your bed is probably warmer than moonlight.”

“I don’t think I want to move for a few minutes,” she responds. 

The Witcher nods, smiling. Minutes pass, indeed, before either of them stand and retrieve their clothes. Under the pale moonlight, Ralen takes the woman’s hand and takes her back to the castle to rest. 

 

  
***

 

Jeya wakes at dawn, feeling unusually warm in her bed. She looks over and sees the Witcher’s shoulder against her own, smiling as she remembers that he’d stayed with her. She turns over in the bed and nestles against him, drifting away and enjoying the warmth of his body as he wraps an arm over her in his sleep. Hours later, the Witcher wakes from the light of the morning sun pouring into the room. The movement draws Jeya out of sleep as well, and she squints at the sudden change in light.

“Good morning,” he breathes out.

“Good morning,” she responds with a yawn.

“Today’s the day.”

She nods slightly, still resting against the pillow.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Good,” she says with a yawn.

“Come on,” he says, getting out of the bed. “We should get going, it’s probably eight-thirty already.”

Jeya groans, sliding drearily out from under the covers. Ralen brings her clothes over before putting on his own, and she slowly starts to dress herself. Once finished, she stands with a bit more energy and ties her hair half-up to finish.By the time they descend to the main hall, everyone has already gathered around the table and nearly finished eating. A number of eyebrows rise at the sight of them emerging from the tower together, but no one says a word as they quickly gather food on their plates and catch up to the others.

“Right,” Yennefer rises from the table after they’ve had time to eat. “Now that everyone’s finished, I’ll have you listen while I explain what we’re about to do. We’re going to need the restraints that you all used for the Trial of Grasses. This is for everyone’s safety, so I will take no objections. The incantation alone is going to take several minutes - after which you, Jeya, will be returned to your original state.”

Jeya nods, “Alright, I understand.”

“And how are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling nervous, but better than yesterday now that I’ve had more time to think about it.”

  
“I’m happy to hear that,” Yennefer crosses her arms. “I was quite disconcerted at the idea of doing this while you were disheveled.”

Ralen suddenly chokes on his sip of water, as the others turn and stare at him from around the table.

“Sorry,” he croaks, gesturing to Yennefer. “Go on.”

With a raised brow, she continues. “The rest of you are not to approach her under any circumstance, while the reversion is taking place. This is crucial, and must be abundantly clear to everyone.”

She looks around, while each Witcher nods quietly in affirmation.

“Good,” she continues, “Let’s get on with it, then. No time to waste.” 

“Yes,” Jeya nods and rises from the table. The Witchers follow in her example, and together they make their way across the main hall.

“Do ya get the feeling Yen’s a little too excited over this?” Lambert mutters quietly to Eskel

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this eager,” he responds.

“She’s probably curious as hell… Aren’t we all, though?”

Eskel nods in agreement. In the far corner, Jeya sees a large wooden table with thick, leather restraints all over it.

“This is what you guys use on each other?” Jeya asks grimly.

“Well when you put it like _that,_ it just sounds dirty,” Lambert responds.

“Don’t worry, it’s not as uncomfortable as it looks,” says Geralt.

“Go on then,” Yennefer gestures to it. “Someone tend to the restraints, please.”

Jeya reluctantly climbs onto the table, watching as Geralt and Ralen fasten the belts around her arms and legs. Fearful disappointment tightens in her chest as they finish quickly, and even Ralen’s reassuring hand on her shoulder does not assuage the growing anxiety.

“Let’s begin,” Yennefer steps forward, and the color drains from Jeya’s face. “Everyone please step away.”

Geralt and Ralen take several steps back behind Yennefer, along with the others. After several quiet moments of meditation, the sorceress raises her black-gloved hands and hums until they are ensconced in a bright, violet light. Slivers of it stretch toward Jeya as she begins to read the incantation. Nothing happens for several repetitions of it, save for Jeya’s slow drift into what appears to be a deep sleep. Then the incantation changes abruptly, and Jeya’s eyes suddenly burst open in an epic rage.

The Witchers watch in horror as Jeya begins to convulse aggressively and scream in wild fury, pulling on the restrains like an angry, captured animal. They gape in amazement as the brown shade of the woman’s hair suddenly melts away, leaving a bright, silver hue in its wake. Ralen glances at Geralt, who’d undergone several additional mutations before his hair had turned the exact same color.

Jeya continues to convulse and cry out in savage pain, as a distinct tone begins to appear along the muscles of her arms and legs. Finally, the nails on her slender hands grow long and sharp, and she clamps into the edge of the table viciously. 

As Yennefer reaches the final incantation, the woman arches her back and screams out one last time before dropping lifelessly on the table. The sorceress lowers her hands slowly, as the violet light begins to fade. Ralen takes a step forward, and she gestures for him to wait.

The woman lies unmoving for several minutes, with her head facing the opposite wall. Finally, her hands begin to twitch and move slowly, as though stretching after a deep sleep. Yennefer narrows her eyes, approaching carefully as the woman’s head turns back up toward the ceiling. They watch and listen as she takes slow, deep breaths and rises into a seated position, with a pained, exhausted expression on her face. Her brown, wavy hair is now a bright, silvery color, and pieces of it tumble over her forehead.

The woman slowly turns her head in their direction, and Ralen’s eyes widen as he sees a pair of thin, golden cat eyes peering at them suspiciously from underneath the silver strands of hair. He steps forward, and her eyes immediately jump at the movement.

“Jeya?” Yennefer steps forward. The woman turns her eyes toward the sorceress, remaining otherwise motionless. “Do you know who I am?”

The woman stares distrustfully at Yennefer, then raises her right hand a bit into the air, as though asking for the restraints to be removed. 

“Should we do it?” Vesemir steps forward. “Is it safe?”

Yennefer gazes into the woman’s eyes more carefully, and nods. “Go ahead. I’ll bind her if she tries to attack.”

The woman’s eyes jump between the two of them, and remain fixed on Vesemir as he approaches her. As he removes the restraints, the woman lowers her legs over the edge of the table and stands upright, growing taller and more menacing than Jeya had been previously. They shift uneasily as the _creature_ regards them individually with a deep, scornful gaze - as though looking at children that need to be punished. She stops at the dark-haired Witcher standing to the far left, who peers back at her with a deeper interest than the others.

“Who are you?” Yennefer asks.

The woman turns her gaze back to the sorceress. She narrows her eyes, and speaks in an unfamiliar language.

“What is that?” Yennefer glances back at the others.

“That…” Vesemir mutters in astonishment, “…is the language of the old Witchers, I recognize it.”

  
“Do you know what she’s saying?” Eskel steps forward, beside him. The woman’s eyes move cautiously from person to person, depending on who is speaking.

“No,” he responds. “I know a few words here and there, but not the entire lexicon. Definitely not enough to hold a conversation, no one’s used this language in gods-know how long…”

“What do we do now?” Geralt asks.

“Well we gotta find a way to talk to her, right?” Lambert says, and the woman looks back at him.

“Indeed,” Yennefer says, still watching her.

The woman peers thoughtfully at them another moment before softening slightly, and glancing about the rest of the hall. To her right, she sees a small door to the right of several small bunks on the other side of the hall. Beyond it, she sees a valley, and begins to stride toward it.

“Hold on there,” the sorceress calls out, lifting a hand in her direction threateningly.

The woman stops.

“Can’t go anywhere until we know you’re not a danger to anyone.”

A deep, powerful voice resonates from the woman’s throat, “ _I am not a danger to anyone that concerns you._ ”

The voice is still Jeya’s, though it has recognizably changed.

“So you _can_ speak our language,” Yennefer responds. “What is your name? Are you a Witcher?”

The woman turns slowly and peers at her with a dangerous impatience, “ _I am_ _Gethrevra.”_

Yennefer raises a brow at the odd pronunciation, “Is that your name?” 

“No…” Vesemir says with a low, ominous tone as he steps out in front of the sorceress. “ _That’s not her name_ …”

“Well what is it??” Yennefer asks, growing more annoyed by the minute.

Vesemir pauses, “It’s a word… It means, _The First Witcher._ ”

Six pairs of widened eyes stare at her with incredulity.

“What, like, the first one _ever?_ ” Lambert asks, while Vesemir nods in acknowledgment.

The woman sneers, and turns away as she cocks her head back with a deep breath. She stands frozen for a moment, and a rumble rises in her throat as she finally exhales and lowers it back down. She begins to mumble as she looks out at the valley beyond the door. 

“ _Seventeen drowners, twelve sirens, two griffins…”_ her words trail off as she suddenly bolts with incredible speed past the Witchers’ beds, and passes through the doorway. Ralen and the others chase after her immediately, but stop just outside the door as they watch her leap over the castle wall.

“ _Shit that’s a tall drop_ ,” Lambert hisses.

“Damn it all!” Vesemir yells. “Follow her, all of you - _GO_!”

The Witchers run down the path to the training courtyard, followed by Yennefer, and leave the grounds through the main gate.

“Anyone else hear what she said?” Lambert shouts. “ _Drowners, sirens, griffins_ \- I’m guessing that means something!”

“Can we take her on our own if we split up!?” asks Eskel.

“Don’t fight her, she’s not going to hurt us!” Ralen exclaims.

“How the hell do you know that!?”

“I just do!” Ralen takes off in the eastward direction without another word.

 _If my hunch is right…_ he thinks to himself as he runs down the path, turning left once as he reaches the riverbank.

Using his senses, Ralen finds a small pair of sunken boot tracks, just below a tree at the base of the mountain. They continue on into the crevice, and he is certain that these tracks are hers. The fact that they are sunken also indicates to him that she had jumped down from the tree - she did not _want_ to be followed out of the castle.

Something in the water catches Ralen’s eye as he stalks the trail, and he looks into the water to find streaks of blood flowing downstream. He continues onward slowly, and looks carefully around the corner where he knows the pool should be. There he stops, gaping at what he sees before him. Slowly, he steps out and approaches the bloody scene.

“Jeya…” he says, weakly.

There in the middle of the pool, is the first Witcher standing tearfully with bloodied hands, clothes, and hair - surrounded by the warm, fresh bodies of seventeen dead drowners. [to be continued]

_______________________

Sometimes a story takes on a mind of its own while you're writing, and you just have to go with it. Though, these things do tend to get worse before they get better! On how they get better - read on to find out! And please do leave a comment/kudos if you like the story so far! I will write either way, but it does encourage me to return to the work more promptly. :) Thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Jeya flinches at the sound of the Witcher’s boot stepping into the pool. She turns and sees him carefully extending a hand out, and scans the length of his body—assessing the degree of his uncertainty.

“ _Jeya,_ ” he pleads, practically whispering. The woman furrows a brow, casting her golden eyes back up at his face.

The Witcher pauses, standing motionlessly in the water and waiting for a reaction to spring from the otherwise expressionless woman before him. Calmness slowly settles in her eyes, as she straightens up from her defensively hunched position, and the water swishes against her shins as she takes a step back from him.

Ralen lowers his hand, peering at her intently. “Do you know who I am?” he asks.

The woman blinks, and furrows a brow—as though trying to remember—before slowly shaking her head. “No.”

A heavy weight sinks in Ralen’s chest as he looks her up and down, at every muscle in her body tensing up at his presence.

“But it seems that you know _me,”_ she adds defensively.

“I do—or, I did,” he says with a subtle nod, and takes a step back with his hands raised yieldingly. “My name is Ralen. I’m a Witcher, just like you, and I’m not going to hurt you—you and I are… _friends_.” His voice chokes slightly with the word.

The woman raises a brow, tilting her head distrustfully to the side.

“We met in a leshen’s forest,” he continues slowly. “I thought you were a human, but… then I wasn’t sure what you were, after I watched you make and drink a Witcher’s potion, and lull a botchling to sleep.”

“You didn’t know,” she interjects. “And the Accursed Voice didn’t reveal me?”

“Is that what that was?” Ralen responds, shaking his head. “I’ve never even heard of it.”

The woman parts her lips suspiciously, and then pauses for a moment, peering at him intently. “Very well, _friend,_ tell me—what year is it?” she asks in a low voice. “And who is your ruler—king, emperor, or whoever?”

“Emperor Emhyr Var Emreis,” Ralen says monotonously. “And the year is 1267.” 

The woman blinks. Her throat bobs with a hard swallow, and she tilts her head downward, as though preparing to speak.

“That can’t be…” she whispers. “You’re lying.” 

“I don’t lie,” Ralen says resolutely.

The woman scans the Witcher’s face, looking for traces of reluctance or uncertainty—anything to suggest a lie. Meanwhile the Witcher simply stares back, holding her gaze intently, without a hint of hesitation. 

“ _1267_?” she repeats with a whisper, and exhales sharply as Ralen nods solemnly.

With a heavy breath, her mouth hangs open slightly as she takes several steps backward—away from him—and lowers herself down onto the bank of the pool. Ralen watches all the color drain from the woman’s face, leaving her pale eyes widened with disbelief as she slides her bloodied hands into the water.

“What does that mean to you?” Ralen asks, glancing up at the tree. “And… and why did you come to this spot?”

“The seventeen drowners—they were here, I heard them,” she says breathlessly, looking up from her knees. “Or have Witchers lost that ability as well?”

Sadness twinges in Ralen’s chest at the sight of her defeated expression, and her eyes follow him carefully as he steps closer, and kneels before her in the shallow portion of the pool.  

“Listen, I know you don’t remember, but all I wanted to do since the moment we met,” he says, and his eyes flutter below her nose for a moment. “Was help you. And I’ll help you now—just tell me what happened, and what I can do.” 

“What makes you think I need help?” she asks dryly.

Ralen frowns, glancing down at the streams of blood dissipating from her hands and into the water. “It’s not hard to guess—I just don’t know how. I don’t even know what happened to you. You didn’t know anything about yourself when we met, that’s why we came to Kaer Morhen.”

The woman’s eyes narrow questioningly as she observes the sincerity in the Witcher’s expression. “I still don’t understand why you _want_ to help me.”

She watches as the Witcher parts his lips hesitantly, and stands. “Have you never had friends? It was important to me before, and it’s important to me now.”

The only sound between them for a moment, is the water now swishing around Ralen’s shins as he he steps to her side, keeping a reasonable distance, and lowers himself down on the bank beside her. 

“You called me Jeya,” she says softly, turning toward him. “Was… Was that my name?”

Ralen nods. “That’s what you called yourself.”

“I see,” she looks away. “I suppose you can call me that, it’s a nice name—a kind one.”

“You _were_ kind,” Ralen says, and the dirt scratches against his pants as he turns toward her. “Very kind.”

Jeya looks up at him. “Was I?” she mumbles, peering into the distance, deep in thought. “That’s good, at least he left my soul intact…” 

“Who?” Ralen asks, tilting his head to the side.

“The sorcerer who did this to me,” Jeya says, looking back at him. “His name was Veran—we grew up together, studied together. He helped me create your kind after the Conjunction of Spheres.”

Ralen’s eyes widen, and his brows shoot up as he blinks surprisedly. “You were _alive_ when that happened?” he says, with a raised brow. “We were taught that a group of sorcerers created us after the cataclysm.”

“That’s partially true,” Jeya nods solemnly. “When the world became filled with these terrible creatures,” she nods at the drowners floating down the river, “It’s true, the mages realized the need for Witchers. But I was the only one, and Veran was the first to study my blood, and he developed the Grasses.”

“And that was when you began using them on people?”

“Yes. Their blood was modeled and molded to look like mine,” she says, as a flash of darkness passes over her distant eyes. “But it wasn’t meant to last.”

A solemn look weighs heavily in Ralen’s expression, and he finds himself at a complete loss for words—completely bereft of understanding.

“What happened?” he asks.

Jeya looks up at him, at the thoughts and questions reeling behind the Witcher’s eyes.

“He used it on himself,” she says, pausing for a moment. “He wanted knowledge for the sake of power, to use Witchers for his own purposes. And when I confronted him, he…” she pauses. “He did this to me.” Jeya shakes her head, looking away. “He’s was my friend, and… I don’t know why he didn’t kill me. It would have been kinder.”

Ralen watches as Jeya pulls her hands out of the water, and rubs them together for a moment, before resting them atop her knees. He looks down at her hands, and then up at her face—to see small slivers of water forming atop her bottom lash. The only hint of emotion in an otherwise steadfast expression.

“You know, when I knew you before,” Ralen leans toward her, and lowers his voice to a reassuring tone. “You had no memories of your early life, but the spell kept you young somehow—how could you be young and alive for so long, and not remember anything?”

“I don’t know,” she says, turning back to him. “I never studied magic—I don’t have answers to such questions.”

A sudden avenue springs in Ralen’s mind, and Jeya blinks at the sudden flash of deep enthusiasm in the Witcher’s expression. “Yennefer might,” he says earnestly. “The sorceress—she was the one who removed the spell.”

Jeya shakes her head, and shrugs confusedly. “I don’t understand—why would I want these answers?”

“I don’t know—it may be what you need,” Ralen says, leaning toward her on one hand. “It may help you accept what happened, and move forward with the life you have now.” 

“Is that what _you_ think I need?”

“If it isn’t, then tell me what is,” the Witcher’s voice rises with conviction. “And we will find a way to get it.” 

Ralen holds the woman’s gaze intently for a moment, seeing the confusion steeping in her pale, golden eyes. They’re not the ones he’d looked into just the night before, but a resolute intent grows in Ralen’s mind, and he is bent on believing that that woman is still inside somewhere—that somewhere amidst these ancient memories, parts of Jeya are still looking back at him.

“Fine,” she says quietly, and her eyes soften with the creeping realization that the Witcher may have understated the nature of their ‘friendship.’ “I suppose… Let’s go to your sorceress. Perhaps she can fill some other blanks.”

Ralen sighs frustratedly, and bobs his head downward with a nod.

The Witchers sit motionlessly on the bank for a moment, as though waiting for one or the other to move first, and Ralen finally lowers his hands onto the grass and pushes off of it. He steps into the pool, and his boots shift through the water as he turns and offers Jeya his hand—she looks up at it for moment, before reaching up and taking it in her own.

Ralen pulls her onto her feet with a quick, effortless tug—and for a brief moment, Jeya’s body is mere inches away from his own. Heaviness settles back into his chest as she steps away from him nonchalantly, without the slightest hint of softness in her eyes as she looks up, and gestures for him to lead the way. The Witcher’s body stiffens as he turns and walks across the pool, trying focus his attention on the light footsteps following after him, and convert the stinging in his chest to an icy resolve.

The footsteps stop when they reach the bridge, and Ralen turns to see Jeya peering down the other half of the path.

“Kaer Morhen is this way,” he says emphatically, knowing that she is fully aware of their intended direction. “As is Yennefer.”

  
He watches as the woman slowly turns her head in his direction, and meet his eyes. Doubt clouds her expression as she steps toward him, her lips thinned into a straight line.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can go with you,” she says softly.

Ralen parts his lips in protest, but doesn’t manage to speak before Jeya throws one hand up into the air, and gestures a variation of the Axii sign before him.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her eyes weighing heavy with sadness and compassion. Warm disorientation slowly fills the air around Ralen’s head, and he steps back wearily, feeling his legs readying to give out. “I can see you cared very much for me, and I’m happy to see that the line of Witchers survived—but there’s something I have to do now, and I’m afraid you can’t help me,” Jeya takes his arm, steadying him in place for a moment, and bending over a bit to meet his eyes. “What you _can_ do, is protect what’s to be left of you all. If you cared for me, that is what you will do.”

Ralen feels her grip loosen around his arm, as blackness slowly grows in his vision. One by one, every muscle in his body grows limp, and the warmth of Jeya’s hand disappears from his arm, as he falls unconscious to the ground.

 

***

 

“Come on, buddy.”

Ralen feels his nose crinkle with discomfort, as a heavy hand taps the side of his face.

“Coooome on, come on back,” Lambert’s voices scratches against his ears, as light slowly passes through Ralen’s opening eyes. 

Suddenly, they bolt open, and Ralen rises sharply from the bed—eyes darting from corner to corner as he grips the edge of the small mattress. A familiar red tint surrounds him on all sides, with towering pillars reaching up to the high ceiling.

Ralen pauses, and exhales sharply with frustration. “Damn it all…” he mumbles, running a hand over his forehead. “She got away.”

“Yeah she did,” Lambert scoffs. “She musta knocked you out like a light too—you’ve been out for two days.”

Ralen lowers his hand slowly, revealing widened eyes. “Two days?” he asks emphatically.

“Yup—GERALT!” Ralen flinches as Lambert’s voice explodes out into the hall. “HE’S UP!”

Ralen turns his head toward the sound of footsteps suddenly echoing against the walls, as Geralt and Vesemir appear around the corner.

“Wh—where’s Eskel?” Ralen asks, watching them approach. “And Yen?”

“Oh Eskel’s out tracking,” Lambert says. “We’ve been taking turns. Watching you sleep is like watching grass die,” he nods sarcastically. “ _You’re welcome._ ”

Ralen narrows his eyes. “Why the hell were you watching me sleep?”

A solemn look passes over Lambert’s expression. “Because you were hardly breathing, man. I don’t know what she did to you, but it was pretty bad.”

“And what about Yen?” 

“She left,” Lambert says in a low voice. “Said this was ‘our Witcher, our problem.’”

Ralen scoffs lightly. “Sounds like Yen, I guess… I was hoping she’d still be here, though,” he says, lowering his gaze to the red tiles, as he crinkles his nose confusedly. “Jeya… Axii’d me—I didn’t know she could do that.”

Lambert blinks surprisedly, and looks up at Vesemir. “Can _we_ do that? I mean I haven’t been sleeping well to be honest—some asshole’s been hogging my bed the past three days.”

Vesemir shakes his head—austerely tired of Lambert’s shit—while Ralen’s hand shoots out and grabs Lambert by the collar, pulling his face closer. “You know what, some asshole’s going to knock you out if you don’t shut the hell up for once.”

“Enough,” Geralt interjects dryly. “You’re up now, just tell us what happened to the girl.”

Ralen loosens his grip around the collar and lowers his hand back down to the mattress, shuffling his legs to the right, and over the edge of the bed.

“I told you, she got away.” 

“What direction did she go in? She’s damn good at covering her tracks, we haven’t been able to pick up on them at all.”

Ralen peers down at the ground, shaking his head. “She left me at the bridge. I wanted her to come back and talk to Yen, but she said there was something she needed to do.” 

“Well _that_ sounds ominous,” says Vesemir, glancing at Geralt.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Ralen looks up at her. “But she’s been alive since the Conjunction of Spheres.”

Geralt crosses his arms suspiciously. “You don’t say? Did she tell you that?”

“Yeah,” Ralen nods.

“And you believe her?”

“Trust me, she wasn’t lying.”

“If that’s true, then that was one unique spell,” says Vesemir. “To have kept her young all these years. Wonder if I can get some of that,” he scoffs amusedly.

“Must’ve been some variation of the spell, since Yen was able to recognize it,” Geralt says, looking back at Ralen. “Did she say anything else? Maybe where she’s going, or what she’s planning on doing?”

“No,” Ralen shakes his head. 

“Well, what else did you talk about? What did she take an interest in?” Vesemir asks. 

“She wanted to know what year it is, and who’s ruling the land right now.” 

Vesemir raises a brow. “Well,” he pauses. “Is it just me, or is that kind of a strange first inquiry for someone who’s just woken up from a thousand year old cat nap—Did you tell her it was Emhyr?”

Ralen nods. 

“Then maybe it was intentional,” Vesemir says, crossing his arms. “Did she want to know anything else—anything at all?”

“No, that was it.”

“Good a start as any,” Vesemir shrugs. "If you wanna go after her.”

Ralen looks up at him. “You guys don’t think we should?”

“Well what’re we gonna do with her here? Lock her up? Kill her?” 

“Then why’d you send Eskel out tracking after her?” 

“He insisted,” says Lambert. “Said that someone lost and confused shouldn’t be left out there on their own like that.”

Sadness twinges in Ralen’s expression as he looks away, with conflicting thoughts turning over in his head, as rejection stings lightly in his chest.

“Well I guess I’ll leave it to Eskel then,” he mutters. “She didn’t want me to follow her anyway.”

Silence.

“Seriously?” Lambert asks in a low, solemn tone.

Ralen blinks surprisedly at him.

“Are you serious?” Lambert asks again, and Ralen stares at him blankly. “You dumbass,” he says with a scoff.

Ralen narrows his eyes. “… _What?_ ”

"Ya love her, don't you?" Lambert asks—as the first to address it out loud for the first time. “Actually no—you don't need to answer that. Anyone with two eyes and a cock can tell that you’ve got it out for her. You really just gonna leave her out there by herself?”

“That’s literally what she wanted me to do,” Ralen says as he stands. 

“She doesn’t know you, dumb shit. But she fell for your pansy ass once already, didn’t she?”

Ralen looks past him at Geralt and Vesemir, and the look of slight shock and disconcertion in both their faces—neither look prepared to disagree. Ralen sighs heavily,

“You’re right,” he mumbles quietly, looking down the hall.

“Damn straight I’m right,” Lambert says with a hefty nod, and gestures down the hall. “Now go fucking get her.”

“Yeah,” Ralen nods, pushing off the bed. “I will.”

“I’ll come with you, if you want,” says Geralt, stepping forward.

Ralen tilts his head downward. “Yeah, I’d appreciate that. I don’t know what to expect from any of this.” 

“Well hell,” Lambert says, standing up from the little stool beside the bed, and crossing his arms. “I thought this was going to be your little romantic excursion—but if everyone’s going, then I’m coming too.”

“I’m not going,” says Vesemir, waving a hand tiredly through the air. “I’ve got enough problems here—you kids have fun.”

“What about Eskel?” Geralt asks, as Vesemir walks away.

“Well if we see him on our way out, we’ll let him know,” Ralen says. “But Jeya’s got two days on us—I don’t want to wait.” 

“Alright,” Geralt nods, and lowers his hands to his sides as he steps back, turning partly in the other direction. “Meet back here in an hour, and then we’ll head out.” 

“Roooooad triiiiiiiiiiip,” Lambert says in a coarse, sing-song voice, turning demonstrably on his heel as each the three Witchers disperse in opposite directions—making to prepare for the coming journey.


	7. Onward to My Death

The emperor’s palace shudders with a new presence. Heels click down the center of the throne room, where a number of guards and stray nobleman turn toward the ashen haired woman striding past them. Gold and blue flags cast faint reflecting against the marbled floors, and the First Witcher eyes the wooden throne as she walks off to the left—listening carefully for any voices in the palace to reveal the location of the emperor.

Hallway. To the right.

A few of the guards call out to her, but she struts by them without a care—at least, until she hears their feet thundering toward her. With a single pivot and sweep of her hand, a pale white light engulfs the shoulders of every person in the room—emanating ribbons of white light that travel down the body, with a sweeping calmness that lulls some of the weaker-minded to the ground.

The heavy, wooden door creaks as she steps into the hallway beyond it, noting the white flowered symbols on the walls to her left. Two guards appear before her once more, and she casts them to the ground with her spell once more, passing onward up the spiraled stairway to the only door at the top; the emperor’s study. 

It opens without any trouble, and Jeya stops at the front of the room, eyeing the painting to her right—a young girl, with ashen hair not unlike her own.

“Who are you?” the man at the desk growls, drawing her attention back to him, and the other noblemen in the room.

“I must say, young lady, this is quite inappropriate!” One steps toward her.

Jeya casts him a dark look before gesturing toward him—and then the other two standing to the man’s left. One by one, they fall to the ground, until only the man in the center is left, eyeing her cruelly.

“You must have a death wish, storming here like this—tell me who you are, Witcher.”

Jeya looks down at the white flower at the center of a massive pendant resting on his chest. “Are you Emhyr Var Emreis?”

The man watches her under a heavy brow, and with her enhanced senses, Jeya can see the sweat building in the corners of his forehead—his outward demeanor, however, remains remarkably unscathed. 

“I am,” he says proudly—seemingly unwilling to die without being acknowledged for who he is.

“ _Excellent_ ,” she muses, and her heels fall loudly against the stone ground as she paces about him.

“I’ve known other Witchers, but this,” he glances at the strewn noblemen. “I assume my guards are in the same state outside this room. What is it that you want?”

“I’m not here to kill you, if that’s what you’re really asking,” she says, looking up at the garish painting of the young girl. “I’m only here for information.”

The emperor raises a brow at her. “Information about what?” 

Jeya turns, noting the map laying before him on the desk—it couldn’t have been more perfectly placed. She strides toward him slowly.

“I’m looking for information about the fate of a certain mage,” she says, still staring at the map. “He goes by the name of Veran.”

“I know no such mage.” 

She narrows her eyes at him, and looks down at the map—if he doesn’t know, perhaps the map would be of little use to either of them. “Are you sure about that? I’ve deigned a long road for such little information.” 

“And where exactly, have you come from?”

Jeya blinks, and strides toward him. “You don’t need that information, your _grace.”_

The heavy chair screeches against the ground as he slides back—away from her. She grins, “No need to be afraid,” Jeya says, gesturing toward him. “I only wish to know if you’re telling me the truth.”

A white light appears around him, with familiar ribbons of a silvery color spiraling down the length of him. He raises a hand to his forehead, and glares at her from behind it. “I have nothing more to tell you.”

“Hmmm,” she presses her lips together. “Well, do you know who might be able to offer me this information?”

“Yes,” movement flickers in the emperor’s lip—a valiant effort to resist Jeya’s magic. “Go to Novigrad and find yourself a sorceress there.”

“Novigrad,” Jeya repeats, pulling a thin map from one of her pockets, one she’d picked up on her journey to the palace. “Mark it for me, on this map,” she sets it out in front of him—nothing that the one underneath is nearly identical. All these maps are likely produced in this region.

Emhyr turns to the small quill to his left, and barely taps the excess ink off the lip of its container as he circles Novigrad for her on the map, in the lands further north from here. 

Jeya collects the map from the desk and folds it up, after drying letting the ink dry with a few waves of her hand. “Thank you, your grace. That’s all I needed to know.”

She turns to leave, but his voice stops her again. “You come all this way, disrespect the crown, threaten me in my own home, and truly expect to walk out of here alive?”

Jeya looks back at him, and speaks softly—calmingly. “I never threatened you, or any member of your court. I was merely forceful with taking an audience with you. And as for respect…” she pauses, glancing down at the ground. “I’ve been alive longer than any man, woman, or creature you could meet, and still I doubt I will live long enough to regret it.”

She watches Emhyr’s gaze loosens with confusion, and bows her head before striding back out the door.

 

***

 

“Emhyr’s sure gonna be glad to see _your_ ass,” Lambert says to Geralt, as the three Witchers pass through the doors of the palace.

“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled,” Geralt drones monotonously.

Meanwhile, Ralen strides ahead of the rest, furrowing a brow at the guards approaching them briskly—stopping at a fair distance away.

“Why’d the guards let you in!?” one of them cries. “We’ll have no more business with _your_ kind.” 

Ralen glances back at his two companions confusedly, and turns to the guard. “Was there another Witcher here? A woman? Long, ashen hair, dressed like a mage but with cat eyes?” 

“Er—yeah, that’s the one,” the guard spits at him, but otherwise relaxes his shaken posture a bit. “Came in here and cast a spell on every one of us, woke up hours later.”

Ralen blinks surprisedly, raising a brow at him. “What was she doing here?”

“Came to see the emperor, I think…”

“And may we see him?” 

The guard shakes his head abruptly. “Don’t think he’ll be wanting to see no’ne of the likes of _you._ ”

“Just tell him Geralt of Rivia is here,” Geralt steps up next to Ralen—Lambert too, to his right.

“Geralt of Rivia?” the guard repeats, and steps back hesitantly for a moment, casting a glance back at some of the others. 

With a few subtle nods that indicate some eavesdropping on the guards’ part, he turns reluctantly and bobs his head to the three Witchers. “Alright,” he mumbles. “Just… Wait here.”

Ralen turns back to Geralt and Lambert as the guard saunters away. “What do you make of that?” Geralt asks, crossing his arms as he looks between them. “Knocked out a room of people with the Axii sign?”

“Sounds like a good time to me,” Lambert scoffs.

“Yeah, makes me wonder what else she’s able to do.”

Ralen narrows his eyes thoughtfully, and the three wait in silence until the sound of footsteps draws their attention. 

“Witcher Geralt,” a new guard comes up to them. 

“That’s me,” Geralt steps forward. 

“Come with me.”

Geralt gives the others a sidelong glance, and Ralen nods approvingly to him as they let the guard lead them off to the left—into the garden. There, on the far side of the budding courtyard, Ralen sees Emhyr sitting at a bench beneath a small tree. The emperor looks up at them with disdain, and Geralt stops to let Ralen step ahead of him. 

“Four Witchers in two days,” Emhyr mumbles bitterly. “More than I’ve seen in gods know how long.”

Ralen narrows his eyes slightly. “We’re looking for the woman that was here before us.”

“I figured as much.”

He nods. “Can you tell us why she came here to begin with? What she wanted?”

Emhyr looks off to the side, as though recalling a distant memory. “She was looking for information,” he states plainly. “About a mage by the name of Veran.”

“Veran?” Ralen repeats, furrowing a brow confusedly.

“Know the guy?” Geralt asks. 

Ralen looks over to him. “She mentioned it was the mage that… studied her blood, helped make the line of Witchers.”

“The line of Witchers?” Emhyr grumbles.

“Yes,” he answers, facing the emperor. “She’s… the first one of us.”

“ _The first Witcher?_ ” an amused grin tugs on the corner of Emhyr’s mouth. “I have a hard time believing that.”

“How did she manage to get to you?” Geralt steps toward him. “Knocked out all your guards, right? Probably whoever was in the room with you? We can’t do that.” 

“Among other things,” Ralen adds. “What did you tell her?”

Emhyr eyes the three of them suspiciously. “I told her to go to Novigrad, find a sorceress there who could give her these answers. I’d have tried to have her executed,” movement flutters through Ralen’s jaw. “But she seemed pretty intent on doing that herself.”

Silence. “What do you mean by that?” Ralen asks.

“She said she wouldn’t live long enough to regret the _capital offenses_ she committed here.”

The Witcher’s eyes trail slowly to the two behind him, and he faces Emhyr again—swallowing hard. “Was there anything else she said?”

The emperor eyes him intently for a moment, before shaking his head. “That’s it. Now go,” he says, standing slowly before them. “I’ve nothing else to say to you three.” 

Ralen notes the subtle sway in his posture as he walks by—remnants of the Axii sign? The guard didn’t look too good, either. Geralt and Lambert step off to the side, allowing Emhyr by as Ralen turns to face them.

“Why the hell would she be looking for a mage who was alive during the Conjunction of Spheres?”

Geralt shrugs. “Maybe she knows something we don’t. Something that might’ve kept him alive, just like her.” 

“Any ideas who she might try to find in Novigrad?” Lambert asks. 

“Only one mage I still know of left over there,” Geralt trails his eyes slowly to the ground. “Triss.”

“Triss?” Ralen repeats. “She’s still in Novigrad?”

“Last I heard, yeah.”

Ralen blinks to the side, raising a hand to slide over his stubbled jaw. “That’s good—that’s actually good. Triss’ll help Jeya, keep her safe until we get to her, at least.”

“How do you know that?”

Ralen gives him a pointed look. “They’ve met.”

“They’ve _met?_ ” Lambert asks emphatically.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Before we turned her, Triss was the one who helped Jeya learn some stuff, to keep her safe on the road while she was taking contracts.”

Geralt raises a brow. “It’ll be a pretty big surprise when Jeya shows up looking like one of us, then…”

“It’ll be an even bigger surprise when _we_ show up looking for her,” Lambert says pointedly.

“Well she’s only a day ahead of us,” Ralen interjects. “Triss’ll probably slow her down, whatever she’s up to, and we’ve got time to catch up.” 

“So let’s go, yeah?” says Geralt.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey readers, I am updating this story again. :) Took me a little bit to get to this, I know, but in other news - I've officially graduated college! To any of you considering going into some math-y profession... Beware of upper division classes. Make sure you're great at math before you jump into those shark infested waters. 
> 
> Anywho, I'm excited to be continuing this story! Hope you all like it, please vote and let me know what you think. :)


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